Empire
by Kita Kitsune
Summary: ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they? : Futuristic Sci-Fi AU : Initial USUK & then FrUK, Spamano after Ch.3, RoChu, Bad Friends/Touch Trio, PruCan, Giripan, others
1. As Time Passes

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter One: As Time Passes

Word Count: 5,333

Page Count: 8

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: US/UK/US, Giripan

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Saturday, June 12, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: Yeah, I don't even know what this is. :/ Randomness! I dunno if it'll go anywhere, even… Gack, I should be writing new chapters for TWMCII (or sleeping… sleep is always good…), not doing random little things like this! Written in the wee hours of the morning, so I'm sorry if I missed some typos or other weird stuff~ x.x;; I'm tired. ;.;

: : : : : : :

He missed Japan.

He missed the sunsets over the ocean, the whisperings of the wind in the air, the cooing of the birds as a new day began. He missed tatami mats beneath his slipper-clad feet, sliding open delicate doors crafted of thin wood and paper, quiet evenings of flower arranging as the stillness of the garden beyond beckoned to him. He missed the earthy scents and sounds of the island nation around him, the familiar feelings of home.

He had never been to that Japan.

He had never seen it, never touched it before the Great Migration that left Earth a vast wasteland, uninhabited by all but the strongest of florae and faunae after the nuclear war. No, humanity had evolved far beyond the lump of dirt floating next to a dying star, had escaped to the cold embrace of space in time to avoid being completely obliterated from existence. Humanity had evolved further, splitting into separate floating grids of cubicles that housed anywhere from ten to ten thousand. Naturally, those who had escaped from the same regions of Earth bonded together as best they could, but in the vast bleakness of space not much could be done. They had named the regions after their abandoned homelands. His was Japan.

He knew he was not, and had never been, human. Oh, his body was crafted well, but his first memories were too sharp and flooded with too much information for him to be a true human. He'd known the entire history of his country since age five. Been able to recite all of the old poetry from his world without flaw by nine. He was Japan. Or, more specifically, JAPAN4298-5023. But he was the currently-chosen JAPAN for use by the United Military against the Soviets. Of course, now was not the time for this.

Another explosion rocked the ship and he paused, crouched behind the corner of the wall. Some distance away he heard footsteps, and touched the cloaking device on his belt, subtly reassured by its existence. Naturally, he was skilled enough that much of the time he didn't need it, but it was always prudent to have a back-up plan. He peered around the corner, spying no one, and hurriedly checked the locater on his wrist before sprinting down the corridor, footsteps silent as death. He stopped in front of a locked room, pressing his bare right palm to the scanner and narrowing his eyes. The contraption went haywire for a moment, the screen flashing a flickering yellow before at last fading to a glowing green—no red, he hadn't been detected!—and sliding the door open. Wasting no time, Japan entered, eyes widening at the sight before him.

He'd heard of the man he'd been sent to rescue, but to see it like this…

The room was dark except for the screens, so the naked boy floating in a cylinder filled with a glowing pinkish fluid—not unlike the ones they used to maneuver their own ships—was fairly hard to miss. Wires were attached to his skin every few centimeters, and leading up into the huge, heavy black metal lid capping the container. Japan crept closer, his eyes on the back of the boy's head as he approached, although they flickered every now and then to the screens showing the battle outside. Was the boy watching them? Sliding carefully around to the front, his dark eyes widened. There was a Fighter mask on his face—one of the half-centimeter-thin contraptions that looked like an old European-era party mask but for the ridiculous feathers and glitter. It covered his eyes and part of his nose, only—but, the boy's eyes were closed. That wasn't the problem, though. Why would he be wearing a fighter mask outside of a Fighter? This ship certainly wasn't one. At first he'd assumed that they'd made him into a Navigator, but now… Frowning softly, he turned to glance behind him at the battle.

There was England's Fighter—his dear friend not visible, though—gathering a swirling tempest of magic in its bulky, mechanical hands. The magic was all England's talent, however. He was amazing at it, the best in their group. The shining bolt came right for the screen, he noticed, and instinctively ducked before the swishing sound of water drew his attention to the boy. He looked up.

Those sightless eyes behind his mask had gone wide and white, and he was arching his back as though in great pain. Japan's eyes widened, and he cursed beneath his breath as understanding flooded into his mind. The Soviets had—did they care for nothing _sane_? He rushed to the control panel, closing his eyes and letting his fingers speak to the keyboard, willing them to find the correct sequence of keys. Another shudder rocked the ship but he refused to falter, continuing to disconnect the wires and soon only waiting for that sucking noise that would indicate that the tank was being released. It came after far too many seconds and once it ended he leapt up nimbly to the glassy side, sticking his bare, device-free hand into the goopy fluid and trying to find the boy's face.

As another beam of magic light filled a screen, it dissolved into grey fuzz and the boy arched in pain again, his cry of agony audible—but still muted—now that the cap had been removed. Japan took the chance and ripped the mask off the boy's face, tossing it away behind him with a clatter and hastily endeavoring to pull the boy up out of the water so he could breathe. Harsh panting filled the air, but it was the best he could do to keep him afloat, arms propped up over the edge of the cylinder. Japan found himself wishing desperately that his partner would hurry. The boy was far too heavy for him to hoist out of here alone. He looked at the captive, hair filled with the neon pink gunk and finding he wished to wipe it away. They had lost him far too long ago. The radio in his ear crackled.

"_Japan! Japan, are you there? The Soviets' fighter suddenly stopped moving, did you—"_

"Yes, but where is Greece, he—"

"Right here, Japan." Jumping a little in surprise—but then easily relaxing as he felt stronger arms wind over his own, he fought a smile. Together they hoisted the boy out of the gunk, laying him out on the floor. He looked up, far too happy to see his partner's face and Greece returned his own almost-smile with a softer one. As he placed a hand on Japan's shoulder and one on the unconscious boy's chest, they heard footsteps rushing down the hall. Greece looked at him from where he knelt on the boy's other side. Japan nodded.

They disappeared.

: : :

Back in the safety of their own ship—Greece really was the best for his ability, teleportation, even if it did leave him drained and lethargic a great deal of the time—they handed off the boy before slumping tiredly on the side of the landing bay. Greece's arm wrapped around his shoulders and somehow his hand found his and entwined with it. Japan closed his eyes, leaning back against his shoulder as they took a breath from their mission. Teleportation took a great deal of energy, so they tended to save it for escapes. Usually it was easy enough to board a vessel undetected, but leaving it with a naked, unconscious boy in tow would have been utterly impossible. As it was, teleporting three people was a feat in and of itself, and behind him Japan could feel Greece's breaths evening-out into sleep, his grip loosening. He smiled, and made no move to leave even as he listened to the Fighters landing in the bay beyond their little room—a sheet of glass all that stood between them. Eventually he heard hurried footsteps—two sets, he realized, and just before the door slid open Japan opened his eyes, glancing towards it.

There stood England and Canada, the former looking out-of-breath, green eyes wide and the latter appearing strangely incensed. Surprisingly, it was Canada who spoke first, pushing past England with a desperate stumble, violet eyes brimming with uncertainty and yet, delirious hope.

"J-Japan—! I heard from England… did—did you—" He smiled tiredly before nodding once, even as he made no further move to shift and thus disturb Greece's sleep.

"Yes. He's in the sick bay." Without another word Canada turned and ran. England watched him go for a moment before slowly bringing his eyes back. He took a step forward. Japan smiled politely.

"He's alive?"

"Yes." Japan's face darkened for a moment, though, gaze casting away. "They had him wearing a Fighter mask, England. I believe the one you were fighting was his. He reacted in pain whenever one of your blasts hit him." He chanced a glance back towards England. The blond had gone white with either horror or rage, he couldn't tell.

"Then… the Soviets are separating mind from body in order to fight?" Again, Japan nodded. "Bloody hell…" England swore, punching the side of his fist into the wall beside the door, slumping forward.

"It seems that way."

"They're insane!"

"It makes sense when you think about it. Why risk both a Fighter and a good host being destroyed when you only need to risk the Fighter itself?"

"Japan, it's insane!" Jade eyes pinned him, enraged. "You can't seriously be defending the Soviets for doing such a thing!" He responded calmly.

"I was not. I was merely stating what could be their train of logic." The blond shook his head, and turned to go. "England." The blond stopped in the doorway, back facing him. "Aren't you going to go see him?" There was a pause, then a soft chuckle as England shook his head.

"He wouldn't remember me. It's been years since he was taken." With that, he stepped out and the door slid shut behind him. Japan stifled a sigh. He started when the hand encasing his own tightened, and glanced up behind him. Exhausted green eyes slid open, Greece's expression a little cloudy as he smiled down to him.

"You didn't… tell him that America was whispering his name?" To that Japan only smiled, closing his eyes again and leaning back against Greece.

"He will find out soon enough."

: : :

There were bright lights above him. When was the last time he'd seen light like that? He squinted, lifting a hand to his head only to discover he had a wire clipped to his finger. Furrowing his brow, he raised his other hand to try to pull it off, but another hand stopped him. He looked up, blinking stupidly as his eyes settled on a smiling Asian man whose fingers were wrapped gently around his wrist.

"Welcome back, but please leave that be, aru. We need to keep track of you." He nodded, only then moving to sit up and wincing a little. "Do you know who I am?" He looked up, blinking again. The Asian man smiled at him, withdrawing his hands and tucking them into their sleeves in front of him, bowing a little. "Ah, perhaps it is too soon. You have been through quite an ordeal." That enigmatic smile—a flash of memory disrupted him, words lining up with the image before him, almost identical. His eyes widened as he gasped.

"C-China?" Fine brown eyebrows lifted in surprise before the man chuckled, turning and walking away, murmuring softly to himself.

"Perhaps you will remember more than we thought…" By the door China turned, smiling over his shoulder towards him as it opened. "You have a visitor."

"A vis—"

"America!" A shot clad in the grey jumpsuit of the Navigators tackled him back to the bed and he sucked in a breath as he was pinned, blinking up in surprise at the teary face bearing down on him. He blinked again, then laughed.

"Canada! Oh, man—" His brother joined in on the laughter, Canada's hands taking a firm hold of his elbows as his own did the same. They grinned at each other, foreheads pressing together and neither noticing as China discretely exited, the door sliding shut behind him.

"I can't believe we actually—"

"I know, I never thought I'd see you guys again! Oh, geez!" He felt like he couldn't stop smiling. Like nothing could stop years of torture and isolation from keeping his heart this full. Except for… America's expression faded a little as he glanced towards the door, worry creeping into the edges of his mind. "H-Hey, where's—is he—?" Canada blinked at him, then smiled a little smile, leaning to kiss America on the cheek with a whisper.

"England's just fine. Don't worry." He breathed a sigh of relief, laughing again as he knocked foreheads gently with his little brother, pushing down the unsettled feeling in his gut.

"Haha, yeah, should've known an old man like him wouldn't have kicked the bucket in the few years I've been gone!" Canada smiled at him, a little shyly, nodding. America grinned back. "So, what did I miss?"

: : :

England had once been the greatest Navigator in the entire fleet. Put him in the Navigation Tank of your ship—NT, for short—and it was basically guaranteed he'd dodge every attack while still able to plan ahead for his opponent's next move. Sometimes he'd get hit, but that only caused him to strengthen his shields. Naturally, in an NT he couldn't fight, though. In an NT you couldn't move like you could in a Fighter, it was all mental. In a Fighter you could move your arms and legs, and the machine would move with you. In a Fighter you were housed in the heart of the machine in a floating sphere, wires attached to your jumpsuit as you hovered right in the center of the action—if anyone targeted that area you'd likely die. In all the Fighters the United Military used, anyway. The Soviet Military, however… Well, according to Japan's report, the Soviets had had America in a tank while both Navigating and Fighting. Yet, still, it was all mental and their technology had apparently advanced enough to allow America not to be in the Fighter unit while it was activated. Certainly, this was a dangerous development, but no one could deny that creating a machine that could function like that was clearly a huge leap in technology. It was good to know, too, that for every Soviet Fighter they destroyed, it didn't necessarily mean they were killing someone. Of course, no one knew what the effect of having the Fighter unit completely destroyed would have on the mental state of the person manning it from their tank, but—

After America had been taken, they had used the incident to try to coax England back into his previous role as a Navigator, saying that with their close bond he would be able to locate America better. He had steadfastly refused, stating that Navigator work was for those still young, and that he had no intention of ever getting back in an NT ever again. There were rumors of others like England—like England, only so much greater—"Empires", Navigators who could also control the guns on their ships, effectively making them a sort of Fighter unit. The greatest of them could control entire fleets or even communicate with other Fighters or Navigators, it was rumored. There were only a few great Empires, and their identities were all very secret, demonstrated by the fact they were referred to by numbers, not names. There hadn't been an Empire in ages, though, and by now it was believed that no one possessed the skills and sheer power to attain that rank, anymore.

America, and the information Japan had brought with his return, was the closest they had to a man-made Empire.

: : :

It was about a week after his return, and still England hadn't visited him. America was beginning to feel a bit neglected. He was walking around, thankful he had nowhere to be and idly thinking he'd pop in to see Lithuania and check on how he was doing after all this time—when he ran into someone. His hands went instinctively to the other's arms, and he blinked down in surprise as huge eyebrows blocked any immediate glimpse of the other's face. He laughed, hugging the green-clad man close.

"England! I knew I'd run into you, sometime!" He lifted him up above his head despite the close hallway, laughing only more as the blond's hands started to slap at his arms and angry protests were yelled at him in that too-familiar accented voice. America relented soon enough, setting the man back down and lifting his hands to cup his cheeks. He gazed seriously into the green eyes he'd missed for so long, expression softening as he leaned closer. "I've wanted to do this for years, so don't you dare get embarrassed and run away." And he covered the final inches before their mouths met, and when England slumped against him a few moments later, shoulders trembling oh-so-slightly and fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt, America knew he'd finally come home.

: : :

Their battles with the Soviets were never over, it seemed. It was three years after America's successful rescue, and the NT tank behind the gunner's position was empty while England manned the instruments manually. They were on a scouting mission, and popped back into normal space after their jump and sailed through the endless midnight sky for a bit—until they came upon what seemed to be the entire fleet of Soviet warships. They turned to run, but there was no way they'd escape notice and their warp drive had to charge up before another jump. England's face was grim, and America was just about to suggest that they spend their last moments shagging each other senseless when the blond stood, and reached up to unhook the top buttons on his green uniform. America blinked at him.

"England?" But the blond just turned and walked past him, unzipping his forest green uniform as he went and pausing only a moment to jerk him down and press a kiss on him. Then in a flash of hard green eyes he was gone again, stripping slowly down and out of his bodysuit and into only his boxers and white tank top. America ogled him shamelessly, although with no small amount of confusion, as England pressed the button to fill the NT with fluid and only now stopped and turned to watch him, waiting for it to fill fully. Their eyes locked, serious jade boring into him as though memorizing his face. America couldn't speak, even as the alarms started to blare around them, signaling that they'd been locked-on by the surrounding Soviet ships and only had about two minutes to live. America stepped forward, a sudden sense of urgency washing over him, gaze worried. "England—"

"I love you." It was spoken so quietly, he couldn't move for a moment. England had never said it to him. They'd only had each other for three years—ever since America had confessed with that kiss, back when he'd first been rescued, although it'd been building for years upon years before that—and so for England to say it now… His eyes widened, and he started to rush forward, but was too late to stop the other man from slipping into the pink goop of the mostly-filled cylindrical NT, and only managed to grab England's upper arm before his head went under. England looked up to him, his jade eyes as grim as when they'd first discovered the war fleet. The alarms blared around them. One minute. "Let go, America." There were very few times he'd listen to someone else's orders, but right now—right now, with England looking at him like that, with that tone in his voice—

He just did it, and England slipped under the surface of the pink gel-like fluid, completely submerged as the metallic cap snapped down and sealed snugly over it. America hurried down the steps and away from him, watching England through the glass as a bit of panic began to seep into his mind, the computer's voice blaring at him about oncoming missiles.

: : :

It had been so long since he'd been in an NT, he'd almost forgotten what it was like. England gazed ahead through the pink bubbles and goo, watching as his view of America slowly fogged as his eyes adjusted to the fluid. He let it soak into his skin as his fingers moved on the small holographic keypad that flickered up in front of his face, blocking his view of the alarm-blaring cabin beyond and typing in his identity—no, not ENGLAND5668-7983. Not this time (and perhaps, not ever again).

England felt a jarring, electrical sensation rocket through him as the computer registered what he'd typed in, and he arched back with a silent cry as wires exploded from both the top and bottom of the cylinder and all around him, winding over him and attaching their ends greedily to every part of his skin. He couldn't hear the shout that his lover emitted, the terrified hands suddenly pressing to the outside of glass that he could no longer see. All he could feel was his senses opening up, his eyes truly opening for the first time in what felt like years—no, it had to be decades, didn't it?—and he _saw_ it. He saw the space around him, felt it run over his hands, his legs, and_ into_ him.

And the British Empire smiled.

: : :

"England! England!" He was scared. Black wires and cords of different widths had exploded around England, completely encasing his lover—something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong and it didn't matter that there were missiles headed towards them at this very moment, it didn't matter that they'd be dead, all that mattered is that something _so very wrong_ had just happened and oh, god, what if England couldn't _breathe_? America had never seen wires come out of an NT, before, never, never, and he'd been with the fleet since before he could form sentences. He felt tears in his eyes and they slid down unchecked as he hugged the glass cylinder with all his might, trying in some desperate attempt to break it. He shouldn't have listened to England. If he hadn't listened, at least they'd die holding each other, instead of—

The ship lurched, and for a moment he didn't know what was going on. Then it lurched again and he stumbled, falling onto his rear and blinking up at the flashing screens. His eyes widened as they went to fuzz and the alarm and electricity cut out, washing the deck in the eerie blue back-up emergency lighting, his view of space completely cut out as the instruments went haywire. Oh, crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap! America hurried to a panel, hovering his hands over the keyboard indecisively and glancing nervously back at the unmoving, wire-bound form of his lover in the glowing pink liquid that was quickly turning—purple? He blinked, and rubbed an eye, staring again. Yes, it was purple.

Just at that moment the ship rumbled, and he teetered over with a yell, falling over the panel and grasping onto it as he felt the craft shake and America squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to the panel as he was sure the Soviet missiles would hit any moment now and they'd be—

His body felt like it was being squished and stretched in weird directions. This felt nothing like warp! It was like space itself was bending around him, but trying to pull him along with it around the edges and he slid numbly off the panel to curl into a fetal position, ducking his head down and trying to keep his body parts from sliding away from him. What _was _this? There was the sound of crashing and then the vessel bucked, and then lights were everywhere, all sorts of colors swirling around his vision and he couldn't see or hear anything and then the sensations were too much to hold on to consciousness.

: : :

"Get up." There was a toe in his side and he groaned, hands instinctively going to clutch at his head. It was too bright—oh, wait, then that meant the emergency lighting had clicked off. His eyes snapped open, and when the first thing he saw was England standing over him with a scowl on his face his heart leapt. America did, then, too, laughing and shooting up and grabbing England and pressing kisses all over his face, as usual ignoring his lover's insults and struggles.

"D-_Damn_, England, I don't know what you did, but unless this is heaven—and these bruises I've got are thanks to you and boy do they hurt so I guess it's not—"

"England?" He stopped, at that, blinking down at the man in his arms who was currently watching him rather suspiciously.

"…England? That's you." America blinked again, leaning close with a frown and sliding a hand up to that blond hair. "Hey, did you hit your head or somethin'? Are you—"

"I'm perfectly dandy, just get your paws off me, you lout!" He jerked back as England huffed at him—but, no, this… this had to be a joke. He tried to laugh it off.

"H-Haha, okay, this is really funny, England." Smiling, America waved a hand towards the frowning man before him. "Not really the time for jokes, but—who are you, then, if you're not England?" England sniffed at him, but nonetheless crossed his arms. Those jade depths smirked at him.

"EMPIRE0016." His mouth went dry as his mind started to work.

"W-What?" England gave a loud sigh, waving a hand.

"Oh, what's the use, you're obviously too stupid to comprehend." England smiled at him, condescendingly and humoring him, he could tell. America didn't let it show that those words hurt. "I am EMPIRE0016, more commonly known as the 'British Empire' or 'Great Britain'. Now then." Eng—n-no, it was… No, wait, it was still England!—looked around, seeming unimpressed at the ship surrounding them. "What manner of vessel is this? Is this the best we can do, in fifty years? Tsk, tsk…"

"W-Wait, fifty years?" The conclusion was coming slowly, although America still—

"Yes, fifty years, that's right." The… the 'Empire', or 'Britain', or whatever—looked at him then, those massive brows furrowing. "That's the last time I was needed. Although I haven't the foggiest why I'm here, doesn't seem like there is anyone else aboard this ship." He tapped his lip, and from years of habit America's eyes shot down to watch it. It was still England… just only in body, not mind. His heart ached. What had England done—? Was he really… was that what the 'Empires' were, then? Not separate people, but parts of people that were tucked away? His head ached, just thinking about it, and so he shook it, exhaling a long breath. Britain's green eyes locked on him, and America gave a weak smile. They had the same eyes…

"Um, yeah… about that… you probably saw all those Sov—er, ships surrounding us, right?" He got a nod. Good, at least Eng—Britain remembered _that_. "Well, uh… my—um, England, who you probably don't know but you should 'cause that's—" Here he pointed, ever-blunt. "—his body—and, uh, I guess he sorta changed into you to save us, or something…" America trailed off awkwardly, by now scratching the back of his head and gazing nervously towards the person who was as good as a stranger to him, now. Dammit, after that close-call he just wanted to hold England close and never let him go, but—if England wasn't here, where was he? Was he buried under the Empire's persona, now? What was this, none of it made sense… America sighed, miserably, hanging his head. Would England ever come back?

"Well, that's good to know." That crisp tone cut off his thoughts and he raised his head, attempting a smile towards… Britain, then. Right. Britain. Not England.

"Yeah…" Those sharp emerald depths eyed him, and he fidgeted a little before glancing to the screens above him, blinking in surprise at actually seeing the darkness of space. "Hey! The instruments are working again!" He started forward excitedly, quickly typing into the keyboards as he watched the screen overhead light up and show their coordinates. "Aw, awesome! We're only a few parsecs away from the Military's headquarters. From here, we can—"

"Ah, so the United Military still exists, does it?" He heard a sneer in that voice and turned around, blinking as he saw Britain had come up behind him and was now smirking at the display above them both. He tried not to focus on the fact he wanted to hold him close, kiss him and—those green eyes pinned him, narrowing, and America gulped, jerking back and trying another anxiety-rimmed smile.

"Y-Y-Yeah, we're fightin' the Soviet Military right now—" Emerald depths slowly lidded, falling halfway as Britain leaned closer, purring at him.

"Is that so~?"

America had to wonder what the hell was going on when he found himself kissed by a person who was as good as a complete stranger to him. Although it felt (and smelled, and tasted) almost exactly like England, Britain's approach was entirely different. Five seconds in they were already waging war in each other's mouths, America's hands going to grasp at the still-bared arms of the slightly-shorter man as he found himself pinned up against the lit panel behind him, buttons clicking as pressure was applied and that simple shove sent a wide array of useless messages blinking onto the main screen above their heads. Britain's hands moved, sliding to the neck snaps of his jumpsuit and undoing them before unzipping the full length down to his hips and pressing a hand against his crotch. America jumped, surprised at the quick contact before glancing down then back up as Britain took the chance to dominate his mouth fully, once more. He groaned a little, arms wrapping around behind Britain's shoulders as he pulled him close.

"Wh-What are you—" America's voice cut off as his head threw itself back, Britain's deft fingers wrapping around his clothed length and beginning to rub. A sultry voice cooed into his neck.

"You've wanted this, yes~? You've been looking at me like you've wanted it ever since you woke up. What was your name again, lad?" America's heart clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of England. It was England, but it wasn't. It was, but not in any way that mattered.

"S-Stop—" He felt a frown against his skin, but thankfully Britain retreated and when America opened his eyes he found himself on the receiving end of a baleful glare, the Empire's arms crossed over his chest in blatant irriation.

"If that's what you wish, I won't force you." Britain sniffed at him, turning around and striding off to pick up England's discarded forest green bodysuit from the floor and stepping into it. America took the chance to steady his breathing and shake his head, straightening and flopping into the chair before the keyboard panel. He typed in a few things mechanically, setting the ship on course to return to headquarters. America tried not to sigh, tried not to wonder what it would mean if they landed there like this.

After all, it wasn't every day an old Empire unit resurfaced.

: : :

…_Um. Lots of reviews might possibly make me continue this? xD ;; Er. I hope you enjoyed it~? -Fox_


	2. Bond

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Two: Bond

Word Count: 6,236

Page Count: 9

[Total Word Count: 11,569]

[Total Page Count: 17]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: US/UK/US

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Monday, June 21, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: My native-English-speaking brain says it will be "an NT" and "a Navigational Tank". Because "NT" is pronounced in my head as "en-tee", it sounds really weird without the "an" before it. D: I also apologize for the random plethora of quotes that crop up later. ;.; [ W-Well, they do have to memorize all the literature of their countries at an early age in this AU—s-so it makes sense (read: is justified), right? x.x ]

I should be writing for _"Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal"_ (my other US/UK/US AU fic—hereafter referred to as TWMCII), but this plot isn't letting my brain go (I didn't realize I missed sci-fi so much!). x.o;; Thankfully, this should be a really short fic (likely around five or six chapters), so there might yet be hope… ? x/x Saa.

: : : : : : :

"He is not your son, Mrs. Kirkland. Do you understand that?" The dark-haired English woman nodded hastily from seated position in her hospital bed, holding her shaking arms out for the bundle of cloth settled in the arms of the Military's technician, the two guards flanking the scientist behind him. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he glanced down at the shuffling cloth before pinning her with another glare. "He is not human, Mrs. Kirkland, and you are never to treat him as such. He is ENGLAND5668-7983, and you will call him nothing else, or he will be taken away from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes! Just, please—" At last he stepped forward, and deposited the swathed toddler in her arms with as much care as one who has never truly handled children can. The woman's face broke into a huge, tearful smile as she gazed down at the sleeping, innocent face of the babe. "My boy—Oh, dear, sweet lad." She stroked a reverent, motherly finger down his sleeping cheek with another sob as her heart swelled. When she looked up, the scientist smiled quietly at her.

"We will be in touch. Farewell, Mrs. Kirkland."

And from that day on, the Kirklands finally had a 'son' of their own.

: : :

"But Mummy! I wanna go outside an' play!" Her four-year-old boy pouted, pulling at her apron, green eyes bearing up on her imploringly. She smiled carefully, patting him softly on the head as she knelt down to his level.

"Pet, you know what the doctors said. You are too weak, you might get hurt. Besides, don't you need to be reading your books?" Even at such a young age, he had too much to memorize. What was more amazing was that it seemed he could recall it all! That aside, though, she knew if the scientists heard her addressing him in such a way they would scold her, but—Mrs. Kirkland couldn't quite help herself. Her little boy—no, not hers, but oh god was it as good as true—frowned and looked down at the floor of their American flat, his bushy brows furrowing downward. They were here in America instead of England because ENGLAND5668-7983 was very important, and the odds of him being targeted if they lived outside of their home-grid were low. Yes, both she and her husband were from England, but the unexpected benefit of living here was that it was also cheaper because there was so much more room. Despite the fact it was crowded… She sighed, lifting a hand to brush the boy's fringe from his face, and then cupped his cheek, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper.

"If you're good, honey, we can go on a walk to the park, later. How does that sound?" His bright eyes lit up immediately and he flung his arms around her neck with a giggle.

"I love you, Mummy!" She winced inwardly, wondering what that scientist would think of her if he knew she'd broken her promise, and treated ENGLAND5668-7983 just like the son she'd never had, but—it didn't really matter now, did it? So Mrs. Kirkland just wrapped her arms around him in return, holding him tight to her bosom with a whispered endearment against his hair.

"Yes, I love you too, my precious little angel."

: : :

They've moved, again, although still within America. England is six, now, and his weekends are slowly being claimed by "The Agency"—headed by a man in a white lab coat that makes his mummy uncomfortable. Oh, she doesn't say she's uncomfortable, but when that man in the coat meets them outside the complex her cold hand tightens around England's for a brief moment before she gives him a forced smile and lets go, pushing him gently so that the impersonal feel of the man's latex gloves can rub onto his fingers, instead. He looks back at her as the man leads him away, and she smiles reassuringly, raising her hand to wave—the view of his mummy is cut off as the white doors slide shut behind him, and England looks up at the man beside him. He is not scared of him anymore, but still wary, and those dark brown eyes glint at him as the man chuckles, and tightens his grip on his hand. They walk past the white desk and down the white hall. This place is white, and barren, and, and _perfect_—so very unlike his cozy, messy home far from here.

"ENGLAND5668-7983, I trust you have been keeping up with your lessons?" He nods, vehemently, wanting to prove that his mummy is doing her job perfectly well. Her job is really to educate him, and he doesn't want her to get in any trouble, because he doesn't want her to go away.

"Uh-huh! Mummy—" England gets a sideways glare thrown at him for that and purses his lips, straightening and evening out his tone to sound more mature. "…M-Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland have been making me do them." The man nods approvingly, and as they pass through another set of doors to head down an even longer hall, the ceiling spherical and sloped over their heads.

"Would you recite Shakespeare's epitaph for me, then? You should know that by now, and it's been so long since I last heard it." The words are drawn out of his memory before England can realize it and his lips part as his eyes glaze over.

"_Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare, to digg the dvst encloased heare. Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones, And cvrst be he yt moves my bones." _The man nodded, again, chuckling softly.

"A curious fact, that even as the war approached, the people of Old England refused to move the bard from his resting place." Blinking out of his recitation, England glanced up at the man, eyes wide.

"They did?" There was a tight smile as that firm grip heightened its pressure, just a little bit.

"Yes. But that is neither here nor there. You are ready for your test? If you do well, we'll be putting you in a simulated NT, today." His eyes brightened with glee and anticipation as England nodded, hastily.

"Yes, sir!"

: : :

It was the best day of his life—the first time he got to slide into a _real, _full-size NT in the lab. The pink liquid pulsed around him and he giggled, flapping his arms and delighting in the slight resistance the scrawny limbs found. He tried to peer out of the glass cylinder towards the man he knew was outside of it, but a crackle of radio met his senses, instead.

"ENGLAND5668-7983, are you able to hear us?" He nodded out of habit.

"Yes, ma'am!" England heard typing through the radio and amused himself by swishing and turning his small body in the adult-size tank—there was plenty of room to move around, unlike in the simulated ones designed specifically for children~!—still giggling a little as his boxer shorts fluttered with the movement.

"ENGLAND5668-7983, you should see a holopad before you. Please enter your identification." It bleeped to life in front of his face just as she said it would and he smiled at it, stubby fingers carefully typing in his full name with slow deliberation. Just before pressing the big green circle at the bottom, he paused, blinking up towards the glass of the cylinder, knowing they could see him even if he couldn't see them.

"Why?" He heard a sigh on the other end, the female technician sounding just slightly exasperated.

"I suppose you should learn this now… By entering your identification number, it confirms that you are authorized to work an NT and also retrieves your biological and mental statistics from the system. It alters the fluid in the tank so it can better adjust to your body, ENGLAND5668-7983. It is like… fitting something especially to you, so that you can function comfortably and attain premium efficiency. There are also chemicals that are released to help your mind adapt to this type of performance." He blinked. Were he any other child, most of those terms would have flown straight over his head, but as an RIT—Representative-In-Training—he easily understood everything any other six-year-old would stutter at, due to his altered brain and the successful ingestion of thousands of years of his country's literature, culture and history.

"Oh! OK!" England beamed, and pressed the lit green circle on the holopad to log on.

: : :

They'd moved, again. Not that it really made a difference, because he didn't go to school like the other children, but… He missed the last place they'd lived at. It was a little further out of the way, quiet, with scenes of meadows and forests and animals long extinct—but here they'd been plopped right smack-dab in the center of the city. The only saving grace was the docks on the outskirts of town, and the projected image of a sky over three feet of simulated not-water. Humans may have moved on from Earth, but they still craved the beauty of the natural scenes from it. England thought on this oddity, eyes distant as he stared ahead and remembered things he had never really seen.

Was Old England really so pretty as all that? He looked up, imagining the cloudless sky filled with clouds and rumbling in anger as rain pulsed overhead. There was no rain here, naturally. England wondered what it felt like. Was rain like when he was splashed with water, in the tub? Was it like being drenched, like when he held his breath and dove under the surface? Or was it more like the inside of an NT tank—was rainwater like that goopy pink stuff he'd grown used to, over time, or was it different?

These were all pointless musings—he didn't know, and with Earth's ozone layer ripped open, exposing the world beneath it to the raw effects of space, he would never know. It didn't matter, did it? If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel rain on the skin of the millions of peoples' memories he carried in his mind, nearly feel the cool, almost ticklish feel of random drops of warm water falling on his skin. But he knew he couldn't really remember it, not like the people who had given him these memories could. So he stared silently at the not-water beneath his swaying feet at the end of the dock and recited.

"I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky." Oscar Wilde, 1856-1900. England smiled up at the sky, sadly trying to locate the tent that Mr. Wilde spoke of. He wondered why that particular poem had come to mind. After all, it wasn't as though he was a prisoner… He bowed his head and breathed out another.

"Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad." George Bernard Shaw, 1856-1950. Oh, how true it was! He was so young, and yet could remember so much—was it a curse, then? England almost laughed. It was a near-hysterical laugh that gave way to more poetic mumbles spilling from his lips, his ankles beating against the underside of the dock as he stared unseeingly out at the fake sunset, mind humming with too much information and eyes startlingly wide.

"A child is beset with long traditions. And his infancy is so old, so old, that the mere adding of years in the life to follow will not seem to throw it further back - it is already so far." Alice Meynell, 1847-1922. So old. He was already so old, with so many memories not his own. Did these poets understand? No, they couldn't, they were long dead and buried in ruined ground. England started to breathe after a moment, though, calming down and squeezing his eyes shut at a sudden sharp pain in his chest that he couldn't quite place. The next quote came out as only a breath.

"Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion." Arthur Koestler, 1905-1983. What would happen if the humans lost all these holograms that reminded them of their dead world? Would they waste away out of sadness? It seemed improbable, but then again so many of them were weak. —Or maybe it was his own illusion he'd thought of? Maybe he had no life or self, after all. Maybe it was all just fabricated. Everything about him resurrected after he died. Over and over and over.

"Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England as I trust shall never be put out." Bishop Hugh Latimer, 1485-1555. He tipped his head back, again watching the sky.

_In England as he trusts… In me as he trusts… As they all trust…_

That's right. He was going to grow up big and strong and help fight the Soviet Military, and every native Englishman counted on him. They all did, to be sure he held their great country in his head and acted just as he should. But—he couldn't act as he wanted, then? What did he want to do? Did he want to spend his entire life fighting, fighting, only fighting… Couldn't he do as he pleased, just once? Couldn't he be—

"If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness, so there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds." Alice Meynell, again, 1847-1922. England's mouth quirked up at a corner, and he scrubbed one of his arms over his eyes as he closed them, hiding a sniffle. He wasn't human, so he couldn't be lonely. There was just no one else like him that he had ever met. Maybe, when he was serving under the United Military in active duty, he would finally meet others like—?

"Heeey!" He jerked at the sudden voice, turning around, eyes wide at having been caught alone in such a state. Oh, Mummy would yell at him for wandering off, she would—he blinked. Before him stood a smiling child, blue eyes glimmering at him happily above a friendly grin. Then he laughed, sprinting forward and England jumped in surprise as little arms wound around his neck in an affectionate hug, cherubic laughter lighting the air. "Siwy boy~!" The lad giggled only more, hugging him again before drawing back, eyes sparkling and putting out a hand. "C'mon, Mommy's makin' din-din!" And before he knew it his hand was in this little stranger's—with those chubby cheeks and short stature, at least four years his junior—, and the seven-year-old was pulled along with a breathy, disbelieving laugh into a life he'd never known.

: : :

"…'merica." He looked up at the almost-nine-year-old—his best-best-friend-slash-bestest-big-brother of the past two years—grinning widely and showing his missing front tooth.

"Uh-huh?" America swung his legs back and forth over the dock as they gazed at the sunset. They both knew it wasn't real, but it was pretty and that was all that really mattered. England was standing next to him, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He was quiet. America pouted, slapping the older boy on the shins with the back of his hand and a whine. "C'mooon, say i' awready!"

England glared down at him, and kicked him in the thigh as a response, but otherwise only scowled and looked away, fidgeting nervously.

"…'merica." Green eyes fell on him and he frowned. England looked sad. "Would you… miss me, if I went away?" His own eyes widened.

"Engwand's goin' 'way?" England snapped at him, his quick temper showing.

"Oh, grow up, would you! It's just a question!" But England was fidgeting again, and soon he plopped down beside him on the dock. At their ages, America only came up to England's shoulder, but he did peer up to the older boy's face, squinting at him.

"…som'sin's bad." Green eyes jerked to him, wide with—what? America frowned, lifting a hand and placing it atop England's, which was resting on the dock between them. "Som'sin' bad 'appened, right, Engwand?" At last his friend's shoulders deflated, and America felt his palm turn over, fingers lightly curling over the edges of his smaller hand. England looked into the simulated sunset instead of at their hands, though, a small frown on his lips. America squeezed his hand as hard as he could, and England winced, glaring at him a moment before releasing a sigh with a faint smile tugging around the edges of it.

"Mummy said… I'll have to go away for a while, 'merica." America bit his lip, looking down and trying to keep his sniffles quiet. "She says I gotta go in for some… training, or practice, or whatever the hell they—" America gasped, cutting off the rest of that sentence to point at his friend.

"Engwand! You sa' da bad word!" For a moment England flushed in embarrassment. An instant later, though, he got this strange bold look in his eyes and jumped to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling at the sunset.

"Y'hear that, Mummy? I said a bad word! Hell! Bugger! Damn! Bollocks! Shit! Wanker! Fuck! Bloody!" By this time America was dissolving into giggles beside him, rolling on the dock and dangerously close to falling off.

"Ahahaha-ehehe, Engwand's got a potty mouth! Potty mouth!" Still flushed from his rebellious moment England grinned down at him, puffing out his chest.

"That's right! I'm a big grown-up bloke with a potty mouth, so watch out!"

They laughed together.

: : :

It was only after England arrived that they told him he wouldn't be permitted to leave for another nine years. Nine years! He'd been alive for exactly that long, and they were saying that when he was double his current age, he'd be free to go? He whined and cried and threw a tantrum so bad they had to call in his Mummy, who picked him up, held him close and stroked his hair as his choked sobs slowly started to taper off. She soothed him, told him that they'd stayed close to America's family and would try to keep in touch, but that England had to focus on his training. She was sorry, she said, for not telling him how long the training would be, but the man in the white coat had told her not to. England bit his lip, nodding and at last realizing that his Mummy couldn't disobey the man just like he couldn't.

It was over the course of these nine years that he found out exactly what he was, and what all the other ENGLANDs of the past had been, and how to activate his "Empire Mode" should his life be in danger. He was told that only under the worst circumstances could he activate it—but to not hesitate to activate it, because saving his own life was more important than keeping his identity as an Empire Reincarnate a secret. Nine years was a long time, and they made him swear to tell no one—not his Mummy, not America, not anyone—for his own safety. As far as everyone knew he was just one of the regular RITs, nothing special about him at all. Naturally, he wasn't informed of what other countries' RITs held an Empire Mode, but as it was all very top secret he wasn't surprised. The only ones that knew of his identity were the man in the white lab coat, the head of the United Military (of course!), and now himself.

So he didn't try to think too much into the fact he'd have to keep this heavy revelation from his closest friend and confidante. Just in case, he stopped writing to America around this time, not wanting to let the terrifying truth leak out. He resumed soon enough, waving off his lack of communication by saying he'd been in extensive training that lasted weeks. It was true, in a way.

And nine years later, his training complete at the age of eighteen, England was allowed to go home.

: : :

America had just gotten home last week, granted his annual vacation from training. He only had five years of the required seven done, so it would be a little while yet before he'd be completely finished. His own training time was a far cry from England's nine (at least America got a vacation every year!), but he brushed that off as England just being special because he was England and amazing like that. At the moment, the fourteen-year-old was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to peek around the other people waiting and grinning so wide his lips might crack. He held the sign high above his head, waving it in the air so crazily it was no wonder people were giving him a wide berth. America kept his eyes trained on the passengers disembarking, trying to spot a familiar pair of large eyebrows, but to no avail. Half the people getting off wore the regulation dull red sweatshirts, and (likely because it was so cold on the transport ship) the hoods were pulled up over their heads. America pouted, but didn't lower his sign although he eventually stopped swinging as his arms started to burn. He held it up there firmly, though, face set as he watched the flood of people exiting become a trickle.

A corner of his lips twitched into an attempted frown. England had said that this was the day he was coming back—but where was he? A soft tap on his shoulder made him jump, and he turned around. He frowned, again, only a little deeper this time. The person was wearing one of those red regulation sweatshirts, but he was a head shorter than him! No way that could be England. Still, America put on a bright smile, keeping his hands in the air and stubbornly holding his sign, nonetheless. England could be getting off late, after all!

"Uh, yeah? Wha'dya want? Need directions?" The person shuffled a little, and stuck their hands in their pockets, the hood hiding their face as they looked away. America frowned more, and his tone unintentionally grew a little sharp. "Well? Do you? Yes or no? See, I'm busy, waiting for a friend and—" The person's shoulders were shaking. Guilt rushed through him. "H-Hey! I didn't mean to make ya cry, are you—"

"You unspeakable _moron!_" America let out a squawk as arms abruptly flung around his neck, and the stranger was hanging off him, chest shaking with helpless laughter. He blinked, then. That accent…

"England?" …okay, that sounded way too much like a girly shriek—but England was still chuckling, so it was okay. America just joined in, dropping his sign and wrapping his arms around him in return, giggling into his ear.

"Ehehe, you've gotten short—like a girl—OW!" The embrace ended abruptly as America hopped on one foot, clutching the one that'd been stomped on. England stepped back to glare at him, arms now crossed grumpily over his chest.

"The_ first_ thing you say to me after _nine bloody years _is that I'm like a_ girl_?" …okay, now _that _unmanly shriek was all England. America's grin stretched wide, and, laughing, he lunged for his friend (the pain in his foot apparently forgotten), arms outstretched to snare him in another hug.

"Hahaha, you sound like one, too! Although you've still got that potty m—OW!" Elbow to the diaphragm. America wheezed, the attempt at a hug foiled as he doubled over, palms clutching his stomach while England sniffed haughtily at him.

"Oh, belt up, you! Nobody asked for your opinion!"

At least they managed to get to his home in one piece.

: : :

England took the news of his mother's death very well, America thought, but that didn't mean he didn't feel anything. As the five of them sat down to break the news—England's father, and America's parents, and England and America—, Mr. Kirkland put a strong hand on England's shoulder and the blond offered him a quiet look of sorrow with a nod.

It just wasn't fair, though. America took off after the solemn meeting, dragging England with him to the old dock. The view hadn't changed—why would it, it was just a projection, after all—and they both sat staring into the holographic waves beating against the soles of their feet. It was now that America really realized he was a little taller than the older boy, and smiled to himself sadly as he gazed down at their bare, hanging feet. _Nothing is different, but everything's changed._ **[0] **He wasn't expecting what came out next, but when it did, his voice was soft.

"Let us speak, though we show all our faults and weaknesses, -for it is a sign of strength to be weak, to know it, and out with it - not in a set way and ostentatiously, though, but incidentally and without premeditation." **[1]** America felt England's eyes on him, now, and smiled a little sadly at his thighs before lifting his gaze and turning his head just so, meeting England's quiet stare with a slightly lopsided smile. "Only by contending with challenges that seem to be beyond your strength to handle at the moment you can grow more surely toward the stars." **[2]** He glanced up, towards the void of emptiness that was space, that held the little grid of 'America' within its endless grasp. Sometimes it was good to be the freaks they were, having every fact about their countries crammed into their heads. Sometimes, because right now it gave him an eloquence of speech he didn't usually posses.

"But I—" After those two syllables, England seemed to realize he was speaking and coughed to cover it up, glancing away towards the fake sunset, once more. He seemed to reformulate his thoughts, for the next utterance that escaped was only a whisper—a quote in response to his own, America realized. "The opportunities for heroism are limited in this kind of world: the most people can do is sometimes not to be as weak as they've been at other times." **[3]**

Here America paused, but only a moment, as he reached his hand out to cover England's—like that time before, so very long ago (nine years, in fact!), on this very dock. America hoped his own voice didn't sound desperate, but he really was trying to comfort England with this. England may have written to him, but he had no way of contacting the other, as he didn't know where he was, exactly, and besides England shouldn't be distracted by goings-on in the outside world while he was training. To have him here, now, only to be showered with so much pain—

"We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects." **[4]** He squeezed the smaller hand beneath his own, showing that he was a _good_ effect and smiled again as England choked back a sad laugh. It really would do England good to let it out—he knew he'd want to cry if his mom had died without him knowing it. Mrs. Kirkland had passed only a few short years after England left, seeming to waste away without him. But then England squeezed back, and America looked up to find glistening green eyes on his own. He resisted the urge to try to raise a comforting hand to dispel those threatening tears.

"True courage is not the brutal force of vulgar heroes—" A slender hand cupped his cheek. "—Rather the firm resolve of virtue and reason." **[5] **England trailed off at the end, a few fingers from that hand tracing the lines of America's face as those jade eyes went unfocused, the end of that soft murmur eventually bleeding into another. England's voice hitched as it escaped almost too quickly to be heard. "T-Time misspent in youth is sometimes all the freedom one ever has!" **[6]**

America's eyes widened at the admission, laden with implications—but suddenly there was a shaking England slumped against his chest and so he slowly enfolded the older boy into a gentle, warm embrace, resting his chin on England's head and closing his eyes. England was still trembling beneath him, hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt and America raised one hand from around England's waist to smooth over his spine, whispering softly in his ear. He thought it was a little silly, continuing all of this quoting—but it was something only they could do, with their altered minds, so he understood. It was something only other RITs and Representatives could do, and because of that, these quotes of long-dead, sometimes obscure poets and writers from their respective homelands meant so much more than mere inadequate words of their own. It was so much easier to package their sorrow into a quote from long ago. And yet, even despite all that set them apart from normal humans, they were still so young—he had to wonder if processing such a vast amount of data so early on made their minds mature faster. Because, at only fourteen, America realized that his thoughts certainly felt like those of an old man. Or perhaps it was just how they had been made.

"Disciplining yourself to do what you know is right and important, although difficult, is the highroad to pride, self-esteem, and personal satisfaction." **[7]** America didn't care how stupid or cliché it sounded, right now England needed to know that he couldn't be blamed for his mother's death. England couldn't have done anything about it, after all! They were trained and given tasks to complete, for a reason—they were special, all of them, and no one else could do what they could. They had to do it, their cause was too noble and there was nothing to be done about the personal sacrifices they had to make.

"Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves." **[8] **That accented voice was weak and tight, and England buried more of his face into his shirt, breath catching horribly in his throat and so America only held him closer, half-muffling his friend's voice as it gave way to small sobs. "O-Oh, America, if only I could've—at least—if only I could've seen her once more… M-Mum, I-I-I—" America's heart nearly broke, at that, and he swallowed, drawing England flush against him, grip tightening protectively over his despairing friend as his head bowed and he pressed his mouth in a not-quite-kiss against the top of England's head, voice muted against his hair.

"I-It's not your fault, England. It's—you couldn't do anything, it's not your fault—"

But that didn't mean it hurt any less.

: : :

Four years later—the day America finished his training (two years of an apprenticeship in addition to the two years he originally had left) and officially joined the ranks of the United Military—came the day England resigned from being a Navigator, stubbornly vowing never to set foot in an NT again. Some argued it was because he was sick of manning the huge ships while the Fighters risked their lives in the actual battles. Others said it was personal, and had more to do with the fact England wanted to be by that new recruit—America, was it?—'s side in every fight instead of hovering safely far above in a ship.

Regardless, England had just as much skill as a Fighter as he had had as a Navigator, so they couldn't find any reason to refuse his abrupt switch in profession. More than that, he had an odd talent for magic. The Fighter units were equipped to handle any kind of attack their operators could come up with, but it had been a long time since anyone had used magic as their primary mode of offense.

While on the field, England stuck to America's back like glue, and they fought together as partners. Off the field, though, he started to avoid him like the plague, and took to always yelling at America for acting too reckless, punching him if he got too close, and generally acting like they'd never been friends.

"Hey, England, are you all right? You got hit pretty bad back—" The injured arm was snapped out of his hold, England storming off with yet another irate snarl.

"I'm fine! Leave me alone!" America frowned, but let his hand drop. He spotted Canada watching him as the quiet Navigator slinked off to follow England, and gave him a nod. Better for Canada to follow, since almost anything America seemed to do just annoyed England these days. Running a hand back through his hair, he sighed. Well, maybe he could find Prussia to blow off some steam. The guy was a pretty good listener when he felt like it, after all.

: : :

"You shouldn't yell at him so much." Pouting green eyes were aimed away as Canada tended to the injured Fighter's arm. He sighed, giving England a little smile as he leaned up to look at him. "Right?" Startled at the close proximity England blinked at him—then frowned a little, averting his eyes as he turned his head slightly to the side.

"I-It's not my fault he grew up to be so thick!" And England's cheeks tinged themselves pink, again. Canada laughed, nudging him gently on his uninjured side.

"Oh, England. Did you _want_ him to chase after you?" A huffy, defensive crossing of arms made Canada snicker inside. Jade locked on him suspiciously after a beat, and Canada smiled once more.

"America's never going to get it if you keep acting like that, you know." Bristling shoulders took a few moments to slump, and a despondent sigh graced the air.

"I… I know, Canada. It's just… he's so different from before—from when we were small. He was so sweet and shy, and now he's so brash and confident. How could he ever possibly—?" England's gaze was distant, and he looked so utterly sure of that fact—his heart went out to him.

"He's not that different. He still cares about you the most, eh~?" A reddened face greeted his words, yet again.

"W-What do you mean?" Canada tempered the exasperated amusement threatening to brim up in his voice.

"He's always watching out for you on the field, and seeking your approval above everyone else's. Don't you think that means both you _and_ your opinion matter to him—?" The Fighter turned away, quickly hiding his flush, once more. Did England really think he wasn't obvious? One had to wonder…

"I-I don't know, Canada. I don't know."

: : :

"England's got the hots for you. End of story. I'd tap that before it's too late, bud." Prussia's tone was blunt and coarse. America collapsed forward into the worktable, laughing helplessly and clutching his side with one hand.

"D-D-Dude! England's like my older brother! I've known him since I was knee-high! Y-You can't be serious—" America tried a grinning glance up at him and the mechanic snorted, kicking out at his guest and resulting in a meek '_ow_, you bastard'.

"I am, and I see it." Prussia finally lit the cigarette that'd been dangling from his lips for the past minute, exhaling into the hangar as he plucked it with a blissful sigh. "Just don't take forever. Time doesn't wait, man." America just laughed at him, again.

"Oh, c'mon, England's not gonna keep this up forever. I'm sure he's just having a tough time, or something. Things'll be back to just like before, you'll see!"

Prussia had to wonder if all that time America spent with England as a kid had been what so completely deadened his senses concerning the guy. Because, really? What kind of idiot couldn't see _that _in England's eyes, whenever he looked at America?

: : :

After a while, the weird change in England's behavior started to annoy America and he began to draw away. Eventually it bled over onto the battlefield and they started to wander further and further from one another during encounters with the Soviets. Their infamous partnership was weakening, and it was during this phase that the Soviet Military lured America out on his own and—his Fighter already weak from the hard battle—ambushed him.

When England at last located America's abandoned Fighter unit it looked, to his horror, as though someone had punched the heart out, ripping the operator with brute force from the interior sphere they hovered in. The unit was damaged badly, but England still ordered it taken in and repaired, fruitlessly scanning the landscape for any sign of his friend. He searched the surrounding area for days, but eventually France and Canada dragged England away when it was clear that America was nowhere to be found.

: : :

**[0]** – Quote by Paul Simon (American)

**[1]** – Quote by Herman Melville (American)

**[2]** – Quote by Brian Tracy (American)

**[3]** – Quote by Angus Wilson (British)

**[4]** – Quote by Herman Melville (American)

**[5]** – Quote by Alfred North Whitehead (British)

**[6] **– Quote by Anita Brookner (American)

**[7]** – Quote by Brian Tracy (American)

**[8]** – Quote by Emily Bronte (British)

_This is such a random AU. x.x [ I'm sorry! B-But it really is… ]_

_Reviews would vindicate me, in my mind, for daring to continue this (and thus allowing myself to get distracted from writing for TWMCII)—? ;.; -Fox_


	3. Conceit

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Three: Conceit

Word Count: 7,650

Page Count: 12

[Total Word Count: 19,219]

[Total Page Count: 29]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: America/England, Russia/China, France/England, mentioned Spain/South Italy & Germany/North Italy & Prussia/Austria

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Friday, September 24, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: I HAVE A FANART FOR THIS FIC~! Please check my profile for a link to it! (I'm still so stoked. It's the first fanart drawn for a fic of mine, ever!) Thank you so, so much, Red Hot Holly Berries! It's so cool, thank you for taking the time to draw it! :333

[ Aw, Anonymous Reviewer Jade, you're adorable. :3 Thank you for your kind words~!

Anonymous Reviewer Maelstrom, I do believe you're hyper. xD ;;; Your review gave me some ideas, and I love all your questions. They made me smirk. x3~ ]

8/1/2010: Ahaha, I'm so lazy… I spent most of today planning out so much for this fic. Seriously. It took HOURS (and many checkings of the countries' ages on Wiki, although I had to make up a few for those who have 'age unknown' written in there… D:). But as a result of that, hopefully I can type more, now that I've got everyone's ages and the rough gist of their pasts straight. I hope to post, today~! Wish me luck! :3

9/24/2010: I wrote most all of this chapter in one long go, today (still working on this fic, obviously~). Whew! You needn't worry, I've just been really busy but I've been thinking about it a lot and organizing stuff since I last posted, way back in June! School has just been owning me recently, otherwise I would've updated sooner. :3 Oh, and as a warning—this chapter is a little complicated (if _I_ think so, you know it's gotta be really bad… x/x~ ). For reference, for the school stuff:

Kids are admitted on their 9th birthday. Thus…

1st years are 9 years old

2nd years are 10 years old

3rd years are 11 years old

4th years are 12 years old

5th years are 13 years old

6th years are 14 years old

7th years are 15 years old

8th years are 16 years old

9th years are 17 years old

They graduate on their 18th birthday.

Also: Sorry for any typos, but I really, really wanted to post this chapter up ASAP. I'll catch them as I read through it once it's up, but until then please forgive any mistakes I unintentionally missed! ;.;

: : : : : : :

It was only through the United Military's spy networks did they eventually discover where America was being held.

But his rescue wouldn't happen until two years had passed with him as a Soviet captive.

: : :

The first time he met him, it didn't go over too well. England was just introduced to their class, standing in front of them like the awkward first year they'd all been, at some point—and France had found it irresistible to exclaim to the entire class just _how big_ his eyebrows were. That earned him a venomous glare from the English boy, even if the rest of the students laughed. Most prominently, Russia just behind him chuckled softly and Prussia beside him howled loudly—likely glad that, as a second year, his 'days of hazing' were long over—and his third year friend, Spain, (seated on the other side of the desk-pounding Prussia) shot him an amused raised eyebrow. After that, Prussia lost no chance to torment England with teasing about his rather bushy facial hair, and France wisely made sure to keep his distance from both England and Prussia—at least until the latter got bored with tormenting the former.

Russia—a tall, muscular sixth year who was a lumbering behemoth in the eyes of everyone younger than him—, as well, was quite fond of trying to catch England by himself as he passed through classes. As luck would have it, the first year crop this year was rather thin, and so England was the only first year in their entire class. England was outspoken, though, and would have none of it. He loudly declared to the entire school that he would take on Prussia or even Russia if need be, but halfway through the year he also inadvertently made an enemy out of the ninth year that Russia idolized—China—that quite changed the entire situation.

France wasn't sure how it happened, actually. At first, England and China seemed to get along quite well—they would sit together at lunch (completely ignoring the fact that it was odd for first and ninth years to fraternize, what with the eight-year age difference between them) and talk of poetry and art. Not that France wouldn't have minded joining them about that (there were a good number of French artists and poets in his head to compare with the English and Chinese ones, after all!) but every time he started to approach, England would shoot him a burning, hateful glare—perhaps still holding a grudge about that comment on his first day? At any rate, France deigned it best to wait a while. England was still a child, after all (having entered the school, as they all did, on his ninth birthday), and France needn't concern himself with someone so immature when there were plenty of other people who welcomed his presence—ten-year-old Prussia and eleven-year-old Spain not the least of them.

About halfway through the year, there was an incident during free period. China rose from his seat, apparently affronted as England looked on in surprise, trying to apologize about some thing or another—to which China's mouth thinned further and he turned, briskly striding away towards the corner of the room to where the lone figure of Russia was settled. This shocked everyone, naturally—for (while it had been obvious Russia was over-the-moon for him) China had always ignored his advances over the past four years (France had been diligent in keeping track of his classmates' social lives). Russia beamed delightedly and quickly engaged China in conversation, not keen on letting this chance get away. France's gaze was drawn inexorably back to England, though, catching a bereft, sad look on his face before it hardened as he realized he was being stared at. The blond glared at him—as usual—and swiftly pulled a library book from his bag, burying his nose into it almost immediately. And there was the end of England and China's friendship, although Russia was soon too enamored with China hanging around him (and preoccupied with _keeping_ him there) to bother intimidating anyone unless they brought forth China's wrath. For some odd reason, though, Russia left England alone if China wasn't around to see it—perhaps because it had been England's foolishness in the first place, that led to China severing their friendship.

China's eighteenth birthday came, and he left the school to pursue the predictable job of serving for the United Military. Russia felt the loss keenly—as, being only fourteen, he still had over three years of training left before he could leave and join China in the workforce. No one mentioned the relief they saw on China's face as he took his diploma, though. Perhaps Russia's constant attention over the past half-year had been grating on him.

The next year came at odd times for all of them—collectively, they weren't sure why they had to stay at school year-round, with no vacations, but as it was a long-accepted fact, no one raised this question—as their years in school were determined by their ages, not the school's 'year'. Perhaps it was because their individual work was specialized for their ages, or the school just found it easier to divide them up this way. For example, a first year was always nine years old, a second year always ten, and so on, for a ninth year always being seventeen. On the day of their eighteenth birthday, everyone graduated. There was no primitive 'holding back' like the old days of Earth, as each student's workload was specifically designed for them and them alone. They learned at the pace they learned at, and how much they learned depended on how much they applied themselves during each year.

At any rate, on his thirteenth birthday France became a fifth year, with Spain following as a fourth year and then eventually Prussia as a third year. On England's one-year anniversary of entering the school, France slipped down to his dorm with a peace offering for the newly-dubbed 'second year', and took a quick breath as he knocked on the door. It slid open and England immediately made to close it as soon as he saw who it was. Luckily, France had wedged his foot in the door's threshold before the moment of recognition.

"You! Get lost!" They had a violent shoving match with the door for a while (England trying to help it push shut _despite_ the obstacle and France trying to pull it fully open), until France managed to thrust a little holographic disc through the small opening, grunting with the exertion of trying to prevent his foot from being crushed by the insistent force of the mechanized sliding door.

"H-Here! Just take it! I'm sorry about your first day, I know you've been holding a grudge against me since then—" England had gone quiet, but the disc was plucked quietly from his hands and suddenly the door slid back, almost causing France to stumble into the wide-eyed boy on the other side of it who quickly shoved him off as he tumbled.

"I-Idiot, what's this for? I don't like you, I've never liked you! Why are you giving me this?" France looked up, smiling as he saw that England had successfully activated the hologram—it was a thing from long ago, pictures only found of it when remote-accessed from the old, half-broken computers that remained on Earth after humanity had escaped it.

It was a lovely red-pink-and-white rose bouquet—completely perfect and life-like—suspended in an ever-blooming moment in time. There was no smell, but why should there need to be one? None of them had ever been to Earth before it was destroyed, so none of them had ever smelt a flower—it was impossible to grow them without the bacteria-infested aid of 'dirt', after all. But its visual beauty was enough. Well, enough at least to prevent England from stopping him as he slipped fully into his dorm room. France watched as the boy placed the disc carefully on the nearest table, the holographic vase full of roses projected perfectly still and centered atop it.

"Roses were the flowers of Old England, back on Earth." England turned to look at him, then, those mighty brows furrowed. France offered a debonair smile in return.

"Do you recall the_ Entente cordiale_, of 1904~? I believe Old France would have given Old England roses, on that occasion~" England flushed and hissed at him, whipping out a hand to try and hit him. France only chuckled, ducking away.

"What are you implying, then, that—?"

"That we form our own _'Entente cordiale_', just like our countries did, back then?" The Frenchman cast a mirthful grin towards the other boy. "Why, yes. I believe we've had enough of this fighting, anyway." England mumbled something to that and shoved him out of his dorm, but France still sensed a win and grinned to that effect—even as he involuntarily stumbled out and the metal door slid soundly shut before him.

: : :

The next few years were more bearable. There had been one thing that had been mentioned one month after France's thirteenth birthday, however, that gave him pause. His identity as EMPIRE0012 had been revealed to him, with the stern command that he would be 'activated' by EMPIRE0016 when the time came. Naturally, he had questions—why did he have to wait to be activated? Why could he not activate himself? He got a sharp glare from his superior, for that one—but she answered him, anyway. EMPIRE0016 would only be activated by its carrier in the event of their life being in danger. The carrier of EMPIRE0016 was given the most responsibility, for the activation of EMPIRE0016 was something that would set off other EMPIRE units being activated. They were not sure such an activation would be reversible, however, and the same went for all the EMPIRE units. EMPIRE0016 being activated would not be allowed on a whim. Its carrier would be instructed only to activate their EMPIRE mode under true duress. They would have to assess the situation and determine if the activation of EMPIRE0016 would not only save the carrier's life, but also have a positive outcome on the world. EMPRIE0016's carrier had been told that to activate their EMPIRE unit would result in other EMPIRE units becoming active. France heard this all, but one question loomed after the lengthy explanation. Surely he had a right to know?

"But who is EMPIRE0016's carrier?" His superior pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at him.

"_I_ do not know, and neither should you. The only ones who do are EMPIRE0016's superior and the head of the United Military. And you are not to ask, lest you give away your identity as an EMPIRE to someone who is not or who may betray us. EMPIRE units are myths to nearly everyone who is living now, and for your own safety it must be kept that way. It has been programmed into you to react to EMPIRE0016's presence, so that you may activate your own EMPIRE0012 to be of assistance. The same warnings apply to you, FRANCE0698-1143, but not the same responsibility. Once EMPIRE0016's carrier has activated EMPIRE0016, there will be no turning back. You will not have a choice in becoming EMPIRE0012. But it is best you know this, and that you becoming EMPIRE0012 will also result in another EMPIRE activating. EMPIRE0016's carrier has been impressed with how monumental their activation of their EMPIRE unit will be, and therefore to judge the correct timing in doing so. The responsibility to start the chain of activation is not yours—you simply need to follow orders."

And so there it was. One day, he would become someone entirely different, based on decisions not his own. The part of him that screamed, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" could not be quelled from summoning a wave of bitterness to engulf his mind, however. He spent the rest of the year slacking off, enjoying his freedom and self so much as he could, and trying to coerce anyone he could into his bed. Once he activated, after all, he may never again be 'himself', so it was best to take advantage of the time he had, now.

It wasn't until the next year—when Spain seemed unnaturally sad one month after his own thirteenth birthday and entrance into fifth year—that France's mind caught on the odd coincidence. He approached Spain later that night (who had been nowhere near his usually cheery self for the entire day) and sat down close, leaning their heads together to talk privately. Prussia was off bothering a first year—a reserved, polite one Prussia seemed to have taken quite a liking to riling up since the boy had arrived almost a year ago.

"You have been acting strange, today. Is something wrong?" Green eyes lifted up to him, reddened around their edges as the Spaniard tried a small smile.

"Ah, no, nothing's wrong…" And France would have left it at that, but something nagging in the back of his mind about the timing made him persist, slowly placing his hand on Spain's lower arm.

"Spain… did you have a meeting with your superior, last night?" Those green eyes widened and jerked towards him in utter shock at the intense blue depths trained on him—France usually was never this serious when he wasn't flirting. But his superior's warning echoed fresh in his mind. Even if France was his best friend, would never betray him… Spain hesitated, for a moment, before trust won out. France would never betray him—

"I… I did. He said I was an—" France clapped a hand over his mouth before Spain could say it, eyes just as wide and a little white around the edges as he realized his speculation might be true. Their heads still ducked close together, France mouthed the word "Empire?" to Spain and the Spaniard nodded. They whispered, careful to avoid saying the taboo word that would give away exactly what they were talking about.

"Yes, same here, only it was a year ago—do you think all of us are told a month after?"

"It seems possible, after all it happened with us—"

"What are the odds we would be in the same school? Or is it too much to suppose that—"

"We only have two people to go on, but I don't understand why they don't tell us who is—"

"I know what you mean! 16 will affect me, but I don't know who they are or even who I'll affect—"

"Yeah, 12 will cause me to, but—" France's hand tightened on the Spaniard's arm, and he looked up to see France gesturing oh-so-subtly to himself, blue eyes wide and unbelieving. Spain went white, before nodding and clasping onto his friend's arm just as tightly. "Then you—"

"I will, after 16 makes me—" The nodded together, going quiet again and pulling back as Prussia pranced over to them, gleefully telling his latest tales of bothering that poor younger student, AUSTRIA6428-3365.

: : :

It was when precisely the same drop in mood happened to Prussia one month after his thirteenth birthday that Spain and France began to think that this was all too much of a coincidence. They cornered him that night, the three of them communicating through sentence fragments and body language too subtle for everyone to notice, when they were sitting so close. The realization came to them, then, that France and Spain, once activated as 12 and 13, would also specifically activate Prussia _together_, and he would then activate 2. They had figured this out on their own, given the tools to come to such a conclusion by an enormous amount of luck.

France, 12, would be activated by whoever 16 was. 12 would then activate 13, who was Spain. 12 and 13 combined (somehow?), then, would activate Prussia, who was 1. 1 would activate 2. It was only three people, but when they combined the top-secret knowledge each of them had been told individually, the pattern became quite clear—16's activation would result in not one or two EMPIRE units being activated, but a whole chain reaction that would activate many, many EMPIRE units in turn, like dominoes falling.

They clasped hands, recognizing it as a small mercy that they would not be alone in losing themselves, once (and if) they were activated as EMPIRE units. Given the trend of finding only more EMPIRE units in their specific school, France began to dread England's upcoming promotion to fifth year. He dreaded England realizing that he would be powerless in becoming someone other than who he was, and that that change would be commanded by a ruthless chain of activation—one all except one of the EMPIRE carriers had to face. For what would be the odds that scrawny, prudish England would be the all-important initial activator, EMPIRE0016?

: : :

After this bit of knowledge, the three friends slowly sought out other friends, holding the forbidden-to-be-shared secret of their EMPIRE identities between them. Prussia continued to pester Austria (a third year, by now)—even if the new first year, HUNGARY6822-4119, got into fights with Prussia if she caught him doing so—as well as claim a 'little brother' in the first year, GERMANY3298-6744. Germany seemed practically joined at the hip with the other first year, ITALYVENEZIANO2173-8852, while Spain found himself drawn to the first Italy's twin brother, ITALYROMANO4429-3657. The rest of France's seventh year was spent mostly by pestering England as his fourth year dragged on—France trying to ignore the trepidation slowly creeping up on him as the months passed.

Well, actually, trepidation wasn't the only thing creeping up on him. Apparently there was someone England had left at home, and with France hanging around him so much he constantly heard about him. AMERICA7648-3012—England rattled off the name and numbers as though he'd known them his entire life. Who knew, perhaps he had. At any rate it had France getting quite hot around the collar, seeing wistful smiles like that on England's face as they sat in his dorm room and chatted. The rose bouquet (the disc) he'd given England was still sitting where he'd placed in at the beginning of his second year, only the image was beginning to flicker now, as the battery ran low. It comforted France a little that England hadn't merely thrown it out when it began to malfunction—even as he grew yet more and more jealous over the attention and thoughts England wasted on someone else (other than he himself, the beautiful _France_). Oh, now and then England would also talk of his 'Mum' and how he missed her, but France decidedly did _not_ feel jealous over that. His own Maman was a precious, jeweled treasure to him, after all.

But England's memories of America also brought back darker ones of his own—a lovely dark-haired girl named Jeanne who had been his play-mate through most of his childhood, and with whom he had shared his very first, innocent kiss. They had managed to keep it a secret for a while—but when his superior found out, he was forbidden to see Jeanne ever again. His 'parents' had been charged to enforce it and they had, although not without palpable regret. He hadn't understood then—had only cried out his eight-year-old heart into his Maman's lap—but he did, now. How could France ever hope to love Jeanne as she deserved, as he was not a civilian—nay, not even an ordinary human? He had not understood then, but his fate as an EMPIRE forbade him from even contemplating that option. How would he have explained to Jeanne—were they still together, now—that he might one day disappear as the person she knew, to be replaced by someone wholly different? What would he have said—if he even could have said it, since such information was top secret and so divulging any would be seen as treason?

Spain and Prussia were different—they too felt the heavy lead of being EMPIRE carriers upon their shoulders, they also knew they would likely have their identities ripped from them if the fighting with the Soviets got too dangerous and required their EMPIRE units' higher skills and specialties. And it could not be treason, with them, because they had all been careful not to utter the word 'empire' in any of their discussions over the topic. This is what France thought, that entire year as he stared at England, watching the other boy ramble on about this and that. Was England an EMPIRE unit, too? Would they share the same fate? Or would England just be another that he would be forbidden to tell? He knew Spain and Prussia felt some comfort in knowing 'who to watch' for signs of activation, and comfort in another way that it would be a close friend (even if his mind had been completely shifted to EMPIRE mode and he didn't recognize them) doing so. They could watch for changes, could have some warning before they were activated. But France did not know who EMPIRE0016 _was_. He could be activated by a stranger on the street, and never know his life was about to change forever. What kind of life was that? Living in fear of losing your identity to anyone—he would not live like that. He would wait and see if England acted strangely, a month after his thirteenth birthday. Only then would France bring up the topic of EMPIRE units, without actually saying anything that would land him in a heap of trouble with his superior. He didn't care what they thought—he didn't care who the other EMPIRE units were, and would not give away Spain and Prussia's identities. France only wanted to know who to watch, so he could be prepared for it.

: : :

The expected day came and went, and the next night found France sitting across from the newly-thirteen-year-old England in England's dorm room—as they had done so for the past year. He was watching England carefully, as he worked, bent over his desk… He had to bring it up. France felt much closer to the younger boy by now, and he had to ask. He had to _know_ if England bore the EMPIRE curse just as Spain and Prussia did. Some part of his heart hoped he didn't—that England wouldn't sag under the same weight as the rest of them. France took a slow breath before his voice breached the silent air.

"Did you see your superior last night?" He'd said it in an off-handed way, but England's writing came to an abrupt stop. Green eyes peered over his shoulder at him, suspicious and yet with a small flicker of uncertainty.

"…I did." France attempted a smile, shifting his position so as to lean closer to England, seated on a chair in front of the spare desk in the younger boy's dorm room. He bent his head, gaze turning serious so England would know not to make fun of him for what he said.

"You can't say anything about it, right?" England blinked at him, feigning innocence as he waved a hand in the air.

"I-I don't know what you're—" France caught that hand, pulled the palm of it to his mouth and whispered against the skin.

"You don't have to say it outright, I know it's forbidden. But _please_, England, if you are…" France raised his eyes and dropped his voice, then, almost pleading as he palmed his own chest with his free hand. "12." There it was. If England had no idea what he was talking about he would look at him as though he were insane, but then France could wave it off as a joke and they'd never speak of it, again. As it was, though—

England's eyes grew wide, and he choked a little before trying to draw his hand back.

"Y-You! You _can't_ be… !" France's eyes grew bright, then, and he laughed—a fake, silly sort of titter.

"You are, then! Which—?" His voice had dropped back down, fingers tightening over England's own even as the other boy shook his head in denial, trying to pull back.

"I-I can't, it's not allowed for me to—" England bit his lip, then, looking off. His fingers twitched against their place, pinned to France's cheek.

"You don't have to say it…" France whispered, trying to soothe his friend into a safe confession. If he didn't tell, England would keep this secret built up inside him until it burst, unintentionally. It would lessen the weight on England's shoulders if he knew he wasn't alone—England dropped his hands, and France let him. Determined emerald settled on him, and the other blond raised both his hands, all ten fingers splayed out. France watched him. England indicated his fingers with a nod of his head. Two sets, ten fingers. They disappeared, then, the next time popping up with one full set of five fingers and a single digit raised on his other hand. France's eyes widened, further. It couldn't be. His voice was hushed and disbelieving when it at last escaped.

"_Y-You?_ You are—" He cut himself off, and England dropped his hands again, smiling a sad smile towards him as he nodded. England wasn't just pulling things out of nowhere—he wouldn't be looking at France like this, right now, if he didn't _know_ that 16 activated 12. And England couldn't have just randomly said '16' and look at him like this. France hadn't given England enough information—he hadn't told England that 16 activated 12. It was forbidden, and France could only assume that the superiors kept the identities of the EMPIRE units just as secret from everyone as they had from him.

France, Spain and Prussia figuring out each other's identities had been a merciful fluke. They had happened to know each other well enough that they could tell when they were told of their EMPIRE identities. And by how he was reacting now, England had already _known_ that he would, eventually, be the one to set the chain of EMPIRE activations in motion. England would be the one to take away France's identity—but somehow that was comforting. After all, by the time it happened, England would have already sacrificed himself in choosing to activate EMPIRE0016—but at least it would be England, in some sense. At least there was that. France would have to watch England for changes, but there would be some warning. And it would be his friend, not a stranger.

As the Englishman's shoulders started to shake, France jerked forward and pulled him into a hug. England's trembling hands fastened around his shoulders as he bowed his head, voice a cracked whisper that wouldn't be picked up by the video cameras stationed everywhere in the school ('for security reasons'), muffled as it was into France's shoulder.

"The lives of everyone… they all rest on one decision I make—" France winced, holding his friend tighter and smoothing a hand over his hair, in reassurance. It was true, though. Of all of them, England held the greatest responsibility. And yet—even given all of England's small flaws and outbursts—England was a good, honorable person, deep down. In truth, France felt a little better knowing that the person who held sway over so many lives was someone trustworthy like England. He wouldn't activate EMPIRE0016 without good reason, or on a whim. It would be a rational decision from a rational mind. And with that, France felt a weight lifted from his shoulders—even though it was likely England felt heavier, due to the same realization. After all, now England knew he would be taking away not only his own, but his greatest friend's identity, in activating his EMPIRE unit.

That decision, should he ever be forced to make it, suddenly seemed much more personal.

: : :

England wasn't home for long after his graduation. Only a week after he arrived and discovered the sobering fact of his mum's death, the United Military sent a summons for him to report for duty as a Navigator. It seemed too short a reunion after they had been parted for so long, but England donned his red regulation sweatshirt once more and grabbed his small bag (they were discouraged to bring personal items, as they might be broken or lost, but England was stubborn about being prepared in the event of the unforeseen—such as being stranded somewhere, due to a transport ship being stalled by a Soviet barricade and forced to live off the contents of his 'small bag' for a while until they were rescued). America went with him, the both of them casting a last glance at the old holographic sunrise seen from the end of the dock before heading to the bustling port at the other end of the city.

There was an awkward silence between them, and only when the warning for five-minute-departure boomed over the loudspeakers did America jerk a little, raising a hand with the intent to grab England's shoulder and pull him forward—but England stopped it, putting his own hand out to catch the extended one in a firm handshake. England didn't look at him, just off to the side.

"You'll be done with schooling before you know it, and then you'll be coming to join me." He tried a wobbly, lopsided smile up to America then, and America just had to smile a little at the attempt. England wasn't one for smiling a lot. America pushed back any silly, frivolous thoughts of kissing England—where had they _come_ from, the guy was his oldest and best buddy (even if Canada—a classmate of his at school—was closer in age, he just couldn't replace _England_)! So at that point they shared a(n) (America-initiated) hug, another handshake, and England shouldered his pack with a final glance back before marching off to the ramp that led up into the ship proper.

America would have dreams over the next few years, of what might have happened if he'd just gone with his gut and kissed England, right then and there.

He would have many more dreams (during his years as a Soviet captive) of doing much more to England than just kissing, once he was free. He would dream of soft touches and held hands (and rare smiles), and they would give him the strength to resist. In fact, America would resist so well, his will unable to be broken, that eventually the Soviets resorted to keeping him in a chemically-induced state that kept his consciousness ever-dreaming. They kept him like that—even as they hooked him up in the odd dark room Japan would eventually find him in—to take advantage of his mind and body. America would be used to fight his friends in the United Military, but by then he wasn't even aware he was doing it—only felt the pain in his dreams when it was inflicted upon the machine in battle that he was connected to.

: : :

Everyone was relieved when America and England's ship pulled back into port. They had been gone for an unusual amount of time—longer than a normal scouting mission should take—and so France and Canada waited patiently in the glass waiting room on the other side of the dock, both waving to America as he exited the craft. What was odd, then, though, was—as America spotted them and waved back, dragging England by the arm behind him—England shook off America's arm as though he wasn't at all used to the touch, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he looked away and followed at a more sedate pace. The hurt look on America's face was odd, too, as was England's peering up at the many ships in the hangar as though he'd never quite seen them before. France in particular focused on England, and felt an odd ball of dread tighten in his stomach. He had known England for eighteen years (barring that first awkward one, when England had hated his guts for embarrassing him on his first day of school), and since that night fifteen years ago he had dreaded what might come to pass.

They hadn't spoken of it since then, but when England's eyes locked on his—too dark a shade of green, too meanly arrogant—he felt his breath catch in loaded fear. Canada cast him a concerned, sideways glance upon hearing that breath, but France barely noticed it, only seeing as the not-England's eyes narrowed as they locked with his own—and an unnatural smirk curled on that familiar face. Behind the not-England, Prussia's eyes met with his and time stopped for a heartbeat before France turned, quickly exiting from the room before America and… EMPIRE0016 arrived in the airlock on the other side. He had to warn Spain. England had _activated _his EMPIRE unit, and who knew how long it would take the not-England to catch up with him and activate EMPIRE0012. Before that happened, he had to warn Spain. Prussia already knew, he could tell—and Spain deserved a warning.

: : :

"C-C'mon, we've got to go see—oh, hey, look, there's Canada and—~!"

"Un_hand_ me, you charlatan! You have _no right_ to drag me around as though—"

"O-Oh—A-Ahah… Sorry, Eng—Britain. I mean, it's just—"

"Sorry isn't nearly good enough. Oh, well, the ships these days are certainly less—"

PRUSSIA9627-8841, working as a mechanic in the hangar, also saw America and England's ship land. Their interaction seemed a bit odd to him—especially since he was close enough to hear most of the exchange (until they wandered too far out of earshot)—but what really made him realize what was going on was spying France's reaction in the glass-bordered waiting room on the opposite wall. Prussia's blood grew cold as he recognized that expression and what it might entail. He had never told Spain and France beyond what involved them, but he had also discovered who held the EMPIRE units he would activate with his own EMPIRE0001. France's gaze met with his own for a millisecond before he was gone. It was the best good-bye they could manage—and France would have hurried off to tell Spain. Prussia best go tell 2 and 3, as well. It was his duty, and it would happen soon enough as EMPIRE0012 and EMPIRE0013—once his old friends France and Spain—would inexorably emerge from their sleep, as the awakening of EMPIRE0016 had started the chain of activation.

: : :

Still staring, bewildered, at the door through which France had practically _bolted_ out of, Canada jumped a little as the airlock _whooshed_ open behind him, glancing behind him at the pair with a tentative smile.

"H-Hello, America, Eng—" He noticed something was wrong before he could even finish the word, America shaking his head over the shorter man's shoulder even as England sniffed and extended a hand, smiling pleasantly. Canada tried not to tremble at how razor-sharp that smile was, around the edges.

"A pleasure to meet you, my name's Britain." Canada's brows rose in surprise towards America, but his brother only gave him a watery smile and a helpless shrug. Had England hit his head during the mission? Either way—too polite to dismiss the gesture—Canada extended his hand with a shaky nod.

"A-Ah, hello, I'm Cana—" His soft voice was rather rudely interrupted by England's curt one, the hand tightening around his own as that smile began to show a few teeth.

"That's lovely. Would you happen to know where that bloke who just ran out of here was headed? I do believe I'd like to speak with him." Canada just blinked—England had known France for what seemed like _forever._ What was going on?

"Ah, no, I'm sorry—" England sniffed at him, releasing his hand. America was quick to bound between them, grabbing England's elbow and trying to drag him out of the room, babbling a bit—

"A-Ah, Britain, maybe he's in his room—here, I'll take you—" All-too-soon, Canada was left blinking stupidly towards the empty doorway. He sighed. It really didn't pay to be so easily forgettable.

: : :

France caught Spain just outside the Fighter Training Center, as it was barely past the start of his lunch break. There'd been no battles today, so Romano would be there—the required 'training' was nothing special or hard, just something the Military used to keep them up-to-speed on the days they weren't out on the field. France grabbed Spain's arm, using the code they had decided upon long ago. He hissed it, voice gradually growing softer and sadder as he went on.

"16's awake. It's started. I've got to—I've got to go face this. For England's sake, I can't run away." France turned to leave, but Spain—ditzy though he was, at times, he heard all of _that_—enveloped him in a hug from behind, kissing his cheek and holding him close.

"Thank you, France." France tipped a smile back towards him, for that (knowing exactly that Prussia was Spain's other best friend, and vice-versa), shifting to kiss the man's neck.

"We all knew it would come to this. Destiny is rolling…"

With that, they parted ways possibly forever, as Spain hurried into the Training Center to catch a few last precious moments with Romano. France felt a bit bereaved that he did not have someone with which to do the same—but then he thought better of it. Whoever he might have had would only lose 'France' today, anyway.

: : :

America waited nervously outside France's designated living quarters in a small back-hallway, hoping against hope that the sight of a familiar face would help jog England's memory and bring him back. After all, England always complained about France, but sometimes it would be with a sort of grumpy regard for the Frenchman, and so perhaps—

"Ah, America~! What are you doing… here…" As if on cue, France's happy voice arrived in its usual dramatic fashion, only to slowly fade off as he caught sight of Eng—Britain, leaned just on the other side of his door. An English palm on America's stomach pushed him out of the way and into the wall, uncaringly, as the Empire unit strode forward in front of him, his advance seeming to have locked France in place.

"_Gallia._" Britain practically purred that one word, fingers tracing up the line of France's zipper. America froze, too, upon seeing the look of trepidation lining France's expression. His voice was steady and cool, though.

"You are EMPIRE0016, then?" Green eyes glittered in front of him, and America had to hold his breath to keep from making an outburst as to _how_, exactly, France _knew this_?

"Ah, you _are_ astute. My dear Gallia, did you miss me~?" Britain leaned forward as though to kiss him, but France leaned back—not that America _minded _that reaction, of course (England—no matter his mental state—was still _his_!), but it was even weirder, considering it was _France_ (of all people) backing away from a kiss. The Frenchman's voice was still cool, although America could see his shoulders were rather tense.

"I am not Gallia, I am FRANCE0698-1143. Who are you?" The Englishman sneered at him, fingers curling into the collar of France's grey Navigator bodysuit.

"How can you know I am EMPIRE0016 without knowing I am Britain? …Ah, I see. I shall have to wake Gallia for you. Come here, then, love~" And he leaned in again, but this time France placed a hand over his mouth. It was then that Britain shifted, and America could see the threat of tears gathering at the sides of those blue eyes.

"Tell me, then, _Britain_." France hissed the name as though it had a bad taste. "Has England been entirely erased from your mind, or does some small part of him still—" France never got to finish his thought, though, because at that moment Britain ripped his hand away and leaned up to catch France's lips in a kiss. America watched as France went tense, an electrical current seeming to fly through him even as his eyes snapped shut, a tear or two trickling down his cheek. Britain watched this all through half-lidded eyes, then smirked softly as the hand he'd ripped off his mouth slowly curled its fingers around his own. Britain pulled back, then, whispering lovingly as a tender hand smoothed over France's cheek as he opened his eyes. America resisted the urge to gasp. He couldn't see France in that gaze, anymore. A stranger stared back at Britain.

"Welcome back, Gallia. Wasn't it boring without me~?" A mirrored smirk answered that, a lilting tone giving way to incomprehensible words—a language long dead, after humanity had abandoned Earth as well as the many confusing languages that only made communication a hassle. English had emerged as the international official language—for simplicity's sake because so many countries already spoke it—and the old ones had slowly faded into the dust, the customs and cultural practices the only remains of the refugees' original nations.

"_Merci beaucoup, mon Angleterre_." The voice was sweetly accented and America watched in mounting horror as Fr—Gallia?—moved in to plant a graceful kiss on Britain's waiting mouth. Green eyes met with blue, both sets amused as Fr… _Gallia_'s hands slowly wound around Britain's shoulders and America felt his heart drop into his stomach. He couldn't take it as Britain—who still looked_ so_ much like England—leaned in to deepen the kiss, arms sliding around Gallia's waist.

"W-W-Wait, w-what's going on here?" America managed to get out past the sound of his heart shattering to pieces in his chest. It was too much like… It _was_ England, but it wasn't—but it still_ looked_ like England was… ! Britain and Gallia both turned in mid-embrace to observe him, Gallia slowly quirking one slender eyebrow. Britain sniffed at him, drawing Gallia close to his chest, fingers playing with the wavy locks that wound easily around them.

"Do you _mind_? I'd say even _you_ aren't so stupid as to fail to recognize when to leave two lovers to their reunion—" Those words speared through his brain and tears flooded his eyes. Gallia canted his head from his spot nestled comfortably beneath Britain's chin, blinking towards America as though seeing him for the first time. Then he looked up, murmuring something in a soft tone into Britain's neck. It took all of America's self-restraint not to try and tear them apart.

"_Angleterre_—" Gallia's smooth voice trailed off into more incomprehensible gibberish—and for the first time America wished that he knew what language was being spoken. He really took it for granted that everyone would speak English, but— Britain huffed something, then made to shoo America away, one arm still looped possessively over Gallia's waist.

"Oh, go on, be a good boy and tell the higher-ups that we're both awake, now. I daresay they'd like to hear about it." When America didn't move, Gallia stood, wandering over in front of the door and curiously examining the hand-sized slab installed in the wall beside, hovering his bare palm over it.

"What is this… ?" Britain's tone was impatient as he placed his now-freed arms akimbo.

"Well, hurry it up, lad!" Gallia jumped a little as the door opened, before turning with a radiant smile towards Britain.

"Ah, _et voila_! The door is open." There were more incomprehensible words (what ancient language _was_ it?), after that—but Britain smirked in response and shoved his way past America, grabbing Gallia's wrist and pulling him inside.

"Let's. It's been too long." America's brain caught up with him and he lunged forward, grabbing onto Britain's free hand and desperately straining towards Gallia—trying to put this off, to stop what was happening, with all he could.

"W-Wait, I think you need to come with me! I don't even know who… who 'Gallia' is, s-so—"

"He's EMPIRE0012, you twat." Britain's voice was clipped and annoyed, and he twisted his wrist out of America's hold with relative ease, narrowed jade eyes pinning America where he was. "Gallia. The Frankish Empire. Now go tell them." A pair of arms wound up and around Britain's chest from behind, sultry blue eyes of someone America had once looked up to—France—taking him in with a sly quirk of lips as deft fingers played with the buttons along the collar of England's forest-green Fighter bodysuit, Gallia undoing them as languidly as he spoke.

"Do not hurry to tell them, _non_~? It has been a _very_ long time since I have seen _cher Angleterre_, after all—" Britain's derisive chuckle cut off the rest of his comment, and the door slid promptly shut, banishing America to stand alone in front of France's apartment. For a moment he just stood there, staring hopelessly at the unforgiving metal door and wishing with all his might that he could punch it, but at the same time so thankful that it was thick enough that he could not hear sounds from the inside resonate outward…

America eventually rubbed at his wet cheeks with the end of his bodysuit's sleeve—biting his lip to stifle a small whimper—and turned to make his way down the hallway, shoulders slumping further with each step.

: : :

…_Britain and Gallia are such jerks. j~j They stole much more of the end of this chapter than they should have, too, which is why it's so long compared to the other ones thus far… x.o;;_

_Uwah, I had so much fun writing this, despite all the inherent angst~ -Fox_


	4. Derelict

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Four: Derelict

Word Count: 7,620

Page Count: 12

[Total Word Count: 26,841]

[Total Page Count: 41]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: US/UK/US, Spain/Romano/Spain, America/England, France/England/France

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Friday, October 29, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: …Oh. You guys know that no one needs (and thus, wears) glasses in this fic, right? Because it's sometime far in the future, and they just fix whatever deficiencies someone has when they're young, since it's really cheap. [ So, no glasses for America, Canada, Austria, Sweden, Estonia, Thailand or Monaco. (Sorry, but there's really no way around this, what with how advanced their society is by this point…) ]

FYI, Gallia always speaks French to Britain when they're alone. If it's from Britain's POV you'll know what he's saying (since Britain knows French)—if not, you won't (other than a few 'commonly-seen-in-this-fandom' French words you should all know by now, of course). x3

**Pairings will always be listed under the names of the countries you know from canon Hetalia**, so as to not make things more confusing**.** ._. [ Even though the 'France/England/France' in this chapter is _technically_ 'Gallia/Britain/Gallia'… erm, yeah. And that the 'America/England' is sort of 'America/Britain' (…but not really, since America still loves England, not Britain, and all that jazz) at this point, but… for the sake of everyone's sanity (including mine) I'm not going to get that specific. x.o;; ]

TO REITERATE: FOR THE PAIRINGS LISTED IN THE BEGINNING OF EACH CHAPTER, WE'RE GOING WITH BODIES (Ex: England, Canada), NOT MINDS (Ex: Britain, Canada). Even though there's technically a distinction… Ugh, there are so many split personalities due to the Empires (because, _in this fic_, England≠Britain [but sorta does, since they share the same body], and Gallia≠France [ " " ], and so on…)—the nomenclature is killing me! x/x~

_**Attention:**__** Pics **__are up on my__** deviantART **__concerning the__** layout of the United Military main/mothership **__and also what the__** uniforms ('bodysuits') **__look like.__** Check my profile for the links **__(please do, it's really just easier than doing that thing with the spaces all the time… x.o;;)__**.**_

Sorry for the long author's note, seriously. x.x Maelstrom, I'd respond more to your review, but I really want to give this chapter one last once-over before I post it, so… x/x T-Thank you for taking the time, I love the long reviews~ (Oh! And the enemies in this fic are called the 'Soviets' because I didn't think that little oneshot would balloon into a real fic or anything, and... er... when I was writing what is now the first chapter, 'Soviets' was the first bad-connotation word to pop into my head, so I just went with it. xD ;;; E-Ehe. x.x Nothing related to Communism, really, just my American brain being prejudiced against the word, is all~)

Sorry for any mistakes I might have missed, but I'll get them all eventually! (It's 7:38 AM and I've been up all night finishing this chapter for you guys, so you have a new thing to read to start off Halloween weekend~! Oh, I'm so exhausted. x.o;; )

[Now it's 8:26 AM. POSTING NOW, THEN BED. x/x;;; Gah… / Now 8:46 AM and it's officially posted! :3~ / ]

: : : : : : :

"…America." The fingers threaded through his hair tugged a little and he mumbled something, snuggling closer and breathing a tickling shade of breath over the neck beneath him.

"Hnnr… ?" He heard a soft chuckle in the back of England's throat, and the fingers returned to petting. Satisfied, America shifted closer, arms loosely snug from where they'd been stubbornly hugging the older man throughout the night. America had only been back for a little over a year, and had gladly celebrated his twenty-second birthday with all of their friends only last night. His arms squeezed England a little, affectionately. It had taken just that long for England to grow comfortable with him, and last night they had, for the first time—

"You should know…" England's words broke the silence, drawing him back, and America forced himself to focus. England's voice was too quiet. "I may have to leave, one day." In an instant America was up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and squinting as the crust annoyed him. He quickly rubbed at his eyes, then gawked down at England with a wide stare. Green eyes observed him, as detached and reserved as they could ever be. America's hands hesitantly wandered up.

"W-What?" His voice creaked from sleep, shaking fingers not quite daring to cup the sides of England's face. England watched him for a moment more, before his own hands came up, pressing against his knuckles and bringing America's palms to rest on his cheeks. That aloof look softened, grew molten and _alive _again, under America's somewhat distressed ogling.

"…No. Nevermind." England seemed to be talking to himself, now, subconsciously glancing off to the side as his vision hazed over, showing he was losing himself in thought. "No, America, I'm sorry. I won't leave you, love. There's nothing for you to worry over. I've just had too much time to think to myself, is all." England tried an airy laugh, then, which nonetheless sounded a bit forced. Calmed for the moment (but still a bit confused), America started down at him for a long moment before smoothing a hand over one of England's cheeks and kissing the exposed skin. He didn't know what to say. He should take what England said as truth, shouldn't he? But that England had even said it… England wouldn't say something like that without reason. He was too serious sometimes—especially when he had_ that look_ lingering behind his eyes, and _that tone_ which always made every word he spoke sound heavy and deliberate.

"England? Is everything okay?" He felt England chuckle beneath him, and skinnier arms than America's own weaseled their way around his neck, pulling America's mouth to his with a soft, sultry murmur.

"Of course, dear. Nothing to worry about. Just remembering my own mortality, is all~" America breathed a sigh of relief (that that was all it was!), and pulled back only enough to return the soft smile England was granting him with a bright grin of his own.

"Aw, that~? Well, don't feel down, England! Whenever we go, we'll go together!"

"Mm." England nodded, his eyes growing a touch amused as he tugged America back down by way of those arms encircling his neck. "Sounds like a plan, but until then…~" With a surprised squeak, America found himself blinking up at a smirking England, the older man's hands starting to wander down, palming over America's bare chest and further.

"A-Ah!" America gasped sharply as he was touched, eyes snapping shut and his head arching into the pillow as deft fingers wrapped around him, rubbing tantalizingly and slowly beginning to build the warmth in his lower gut towards arousal. He felt England lean down, then, murmuring seductively against his ear.

"We'll just have to make the best of it, won't we, lad?"

: : :

It was a shame America's eyes were shut. Because of that, he couldn't see the sadness in that green gaze watching him, and so could never insist on knowing what was _really _wrong. But there wouldn't be another chance, anyway—for England never, never said anything related to that one little slip he made (the morning after America's twenty-second birthday), ever again. And so America never knew, as England kept on and smiled and made love to him year after year, always silently praying every morning that this would not be the day he would be forced to sacrifice America's (and his own) happiness for the greater good.

But then, America was strong, unlike him. There was a good chance the boy would still be happy, even if… even if _that _should happen. Because England's body would not be dead, so America should have no reason to die, yes? But it was likely that he would be as good as dead… No, America could never know. England chastised himself for being so weak in almost allowing one moment to overshadow a (at that point) twenty-six-year-old secret. America could never know that he would be 'as good as dead', for then America might seek to die, as he had so promised ("_Whenever we go, we'll go together!"). _No, America had to believe that England could come back, so he would continue to live. A futile hope it might be, but at least America would be _alive. _It would be enough for England. It had to be.

England would dare not bank on the slim possibility that he could return, after activating EMPIRE0016. His superiors had given him no indication that this could be true—and, at any rate, it was always better to prepare for the worst. He had resigned himself to this, long ago, and would continue to live with grim resolution in his heart of hearts. Should that day come, England would hold his head high and do what needed to be done, no matter how painful and hard it was. His feelings alone could not be allowed to interfere with the duty which had claimed him since birth. It would be the way it had to be, and there was no changing it.

Not for anything—not for anyone.

: : :

Spain rushed along the hallway, nervously looking up at the room numbers he passed. Romano was always assigned to the same room—due to scheduling and free space—and so he quickly found it, mind nagging at him with the urgency of the situation while he soundly replayed the old mantra in his head.

_Romano cannot know. I have to tell him to stay away from me. He cannot know what—_

He hesitated, thoughts stilling as he paused in front of the door. Spain placed a hand on it. He didn't have the proper jurisdiction, he couldn't enter, so Spain didn't bother trying to put his palm on the scanner just to the left of the door. He bowed his head, hands sliding to the pockets of his dark red bodysuit as he leaned against the wall opposite the entrance, thoughts taking on a melancholy tone.

_We don't know how long it will be until France is gone. It will be soon. But will we still have time. _

…_Maybe until tomorrow?_

Oh, how he hoped they would have until tomorrow. Perhaps if they went straight to his apartment, didn't answer the door (in case it was Empire-France knocking), and spent the whole night there… A small smile stole over his face as Spain thought on it. Yes, it would be good, wouldn't it? To have one last, beautiful night with Romano—he could make a special night of it, mood lighting and all, watch their favorite movie from the old archives, sing with his guitar until Romano couldn't take it anymore and he—

"Oi, Spain?" He blinked as he recognized that gruff tone, eyes gradually focusing on the annoyed face in front of him as the sliding door crawled shut behind Romano. Upon seeing that face, Spain utterly forgot everything he'd been thinking about, face exploding into a bright smile as he swooped forward with a laugh and gathered Romano up into his arms, kissing every inch of his face and giggling happily when the Italian gave out a garbled yell, struggling to get away. "H-H-Hey! What's wrong with you, bastard—!"

"Ahhh, Romano, I am kidnapping you~!" He sang this, gleefully, spinning Romano around in the hall before using the momentum to scoop him up in his arms, bridal-style. "We will spend the whole night together, with no interruptions!" Spain beamed at him as a hot red flush darted out over Romano's face (a stark contrast to the forest green regulation Fighter bodysuit he wore), and Romano started to swat at him but Spain only laughed again, practically skipping back down the hallway towards the entrance.

"W-What are you talking about, idiot? I-I've got more training in an hour, and Veneziano already made plans to—"

"Then they are canceled, my dear little tomato!" Spain chirped, sniggering again in pure happy joy as Romano's face heated up even more darkly and he snarled, baring teeth and flailing a bit, intending to maim!

"D-D-Don't call me that outside of the apartment, you—" But he was cut off with a smooth kiss, the surprise catching him off-guard and making him eventually melt into Spain's embrace so that when Spain drew back as they reached the doors, Romano was little more than a dazed, floaty-feeling weight in his arms. Steps still light and vibrant, Spain hummed happily to himself as he headed for the Mechanics' living section, and his lone apartment.

Romano mumbled something about Spain being ridiculous, to himself, burrowing his warmed face into Spain's shoulder to hide it from any staring passerby, arms shyly crawling up to loop around his neck. Not that there were many observers, though—Spain was enough of an idiot that this was a semi-common occurrence, and most of the people by now had gotten used to the sight of a red-clad Mechanic cheerfully carrying a green-clad Fighter affectionately in his arms through the narrow halls.

Spain was always an idiot, like this—but something felt strange, for some reason. Romano squeezed Spain's neck subconsciously, and was rewarded with a soft chortle and a press of lips to the crest of his hair as they continued to walk on. Romano's eyes trailed up in thought, even though he couldn't see anything but darkness, brows furrowing slightly. Spain only got this suddenly energetic (and declared he was 'kidnapping' Romano) when something bad was going to happen. Mechanics usually stayed around here, but sometimes they were sent out, if there was a battle coming up, or a ship or a Fighter malfunctioned outside of the base.

Was Spain going away? Was there going to be another battle, soon? Romano couldn't tell, so he just pushed the worrying thoughts stubbornly to the back of his mind and decided he would enjoy this night, and do his best not to be _too_ irritable. If it was something serious, it would be stupid to waste the time they had, now. It might be the last night they would have, together, for quite a few days (if not a week or even a month), depending on the urgency of Spain's new assignment.

: : :

"Didn't that boy look familiar to you?" Gallia murmured in French in his ear, fingers catching the holder on his zipper and sliding it downward with the sound of metal rapidly disengaging from interlinked metal. Britain scoffed, leaning back against him, tilting his head back as the French-speaker's hands slid greedily in over the thin, worn fabric of his white tank top, both ducking beneath the hem and one slowly traveling upwards.

"What are you on about? He didn't—ah—" Britain heard a chuckle behind him and growled, bucking his hips into the sly hand pressing down against the slight bulge in the front of his black boxers.

"My, my, so quick to forget, aren't you, Ar—" Tensing up, Britain quickly elbowed Gallia in his stomach and heard a pained grunt—one he unintentionally mimicked only a moment later, as the gentle hand tightened unpleasantly in punishment over his clothed dick.

"D-Don't call me that!" He hissed, still half in pain, glancing over his shoulder meanly at the bowed head of the man before him. When Gallia at last lifted his face, Britain's eyes went wide at what he saw.

_Beaming up at him, without a care in the world, wide, clear blue eyes laughing from behind a pair of smudged and dirty and scratched spectacles. Little pudgy hands coming up to him, grabbing his own and then they were spinning together in warm sunlight—around and around and—_

"Did you forget me already, big brother?" Al—_Gallia_ pouted up at him. These were the times when Britain really hated the man's ability. The Frenchman's mature stubble and angular, aristocratic features were gone, replaced by rosy cheeks and smooth, youthful skin. The longer, wavier hair was gone, as well—instead it was short and flippy, with one tell-tale bit sticking stubbornly up. His eyes were still blue, but shaded subtly different—reflecting not sly perversion, but earnest innocence. But the damning effect was the glasses.

Those _glasses_, with brown square frames bordering the bottom but not the top (so that the glasses, themselves, were only visible as lines across his cheekbones and didn't appear to run over his actual eyes). Those glasses, which he himself had helped pick out for Al… f-for his younger brother, back in those days before the mass migration from Earth. _Those glasses_—albeit then cracked and broken—which had been the only thing remaining in the ransacked house he'd once called a home, when he'd managed to escape from the clutches of those who would, in time, come to call themselves the United Military.

: : :

Canada hurried along the halls—a barely-noticeable dash of grey—muttering to himself about how it had been so unkind of France, England and America to leave him there—whenever any of them returned from a mission, they always went to the Terry to eat, together! They couldn't have just forgotten him again, could they? He sighed to himself (and the probability that that was, indeed, the case [again]), stopping at last at Section B1 (the living quarters being a full three floors down from the hangar where they'd arrived). Canada peered up at the room numbers out of habit, veering off in the direction of France's apartment. It wasn't so far from his own, really. Everyone lived on the third floor, and country representatives lived in the third floor's B1 Block (utilizing rooms 0000-0400), while B1 Block's 0401-1000 rooms were reserved for the officers of the United Military. The other section of living quarters on the third floor (across the way, on the other side of the Communal Area and Elevators and Emergency Escape Hatches between the two Blocks) was called B2 Block, and housed rooms 1001-3000, for ordinary soldiers. Some lived alone, some with room mates, all depending on which rooms were available.

He hadn't gone more than five steps when the sound of hard running met his ears. Canada blinked up just in time to get bowled over by America, a surprised yelp escaping him as he grasped onto the other man's arms to avoid falling—to little avail. They toppled like a heap of raw metal from fusion. Canada groaned, putting a hand to his head and shifting a little. He blinked again, as he heard sniffling, and looked down. America had his face buried in Canada's chest, fists clutching to the fabric of his grey Navigator bodysuit as he hiccupped. The Canadian sighed to himself, getting comfortable on the floor (being pinned there by the very _un_comfortable weight of the larger man atop him—America had a big frame and lots of muscle, _not_ someone you wanted to be under in a dogpile!) and patting America's back for a few moments until he stopped sniffling. Canada guessed that England had just yelled at him again, he'd been acting off ever since they came back and—

"T-Thanks—" He blinked, and smiled kindly down at the tearful blue eyes bearing up on him. Canada ruffled his hair, trying to laugh a little despite his soft voice.

"Y-You're all right now, eh? Can I get up?" Those blue eyes blinked wide and America quickly scrambled off him, leaning against one side of the narrow hall. Canada pushed himself up to sit against the opposite side, subtly observing America without directly looking at him. The Fighter was staring at the ground, broad shoulders slumped in what looked like utter despair. Canada bit his lip softly, in thought. Well, whatever it was, they shouldn't discuss it here… He began to stand up, reaching out a hand with a tentative smile, sensitive to his brother's mood. "Y-You want to go—?" America instantly looked up at him, expression cracking wide in a grin as he hurried to his feet, cutting him off mid-sentence. Canada almost winced at how easily that mask fell over his face.

"S-Something to eat? Yeah, that'd hit the spot—you're the best, Canada!" Laughing boisterously, America slung an arm over his shoulder and they began to wander back towards the Cafeteria—affectionately nicknamed 'the Terry.' Canada couldn't help but notice out of the corner of his eye (America had pulled him in close, after all) that the other blond's face still looked a little splotchy-(crying-)red, though…

He would ask him about it during the meal.

(_During_ the meal, because that would be the only time he'd be able to get a full sentence out without America interrupting him—and even then, it would be hard. America easily talked with his mouth full, after all…)

: : :

_"—rre? Angleterre!"_ Britain was jerked out of his memories as Gallia shook him, and he took a moment to focus… No, the image was gone. Gallia looked like Fr—Gallia, again. Somehow—without his noticing—Britain had been turned around so his back was against the door, with each of Gallia's hands on his shoulders, those canary-blue eyes worriedly staring into his own. Britain just stared at him for a moment, before looking off and pushing him away with his forearm, heading for the lone couch in the middle of the living room. His tone was low—not defeated, just weighed down with too much old sorrow to be loud.

"Don't play with me like that, Gallia." He'd never really gotten over losing his family. Gallia _knew_ that. He knew it because he'd been the same. They were all that remained of their world—of the green grasses and blue skies. They were all that remained of the world before the nuclear Armageddon. Britain could close his eyes and _remember. _He could remember the cold bite of the English Channel, the salty sea air around the coasts, the wet sand between his toes, the old castles of England and Wales and Ireland and Scotland—the green, foggy moors and Stonehenge, which they had visited when he and his brother were still small. It was these images and senses that assaulted him as he sat in a heavy heap on the bland, mechanical-rubber couch. He knew how it worked. Tiny bolts of electricity ran under the covering sheet, and if they were turned off then the couch would collapse into nothing, leaving free space. But most of the time it was left on. That much, he understood, at least. That much, had been around at least fifty years ago, when he'd last emerged. Britain leaned forward, elbows propping on his thighs as he rubbed at his face with his palms—uncaring of the disheveled nature of his clothing, the front opened all the way down to his crotch, boxers askew beneath it. Why had Gallia reminded him of his isolated existence, by mirroring his dead brother's face?

In another moment he felt lips on his temple and a hand tugging at his wrist. Britain peered up, gaze angry but expression a bit helpless. Gallia smiled his apology, pulling that hand up to kiss the back of it with a warm murmur.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you." To that, Britain snorted, and allowed himself to be pulled up and—presumably—towards the bedroom.

"Of course you didn't. And you're _not_ just horny because it's been half a century since we last saw each other." Gallia pouted back at him and Britain had to smirk, fingers curling around to snag Gallia's wrist while the Frenchman yet had his own—a mockery of hand-holding.

"Ah, so cruel_, Angleterre~!_ What did I do to deserve such harsh words?" He snorted.

"You chose to _exist_." A more pronounced pout followed that comment, and this time Britain grinned meanly at him—showing teeth—in response. Gallia swept his free hand through the air, dramatically, continuing to saunter onward.

"Oh, you say it like that, but I know you missed me~!" All-too-soon that pout was usurped by a sly look, one that had Britain blinking in surprise as he was jerked into the bedroom and pinned against the wall, half-lidded blue eyes suddenly much closer and more alluring than he remembered. He grunted, trying to shove Gallia off and looking away, soundly ignoring any small bit of red hovering over his face.

"S-Stupid tosser, what gives you that idea? God knows you're nothing better than an infuriating—"

"You kissed me, _non~?_" Gallia purred it at him, mouth fastening to his neck and Britain had to take in a quick gasp, neck arching back a little as hot moisture pooled from the spot where those French lips sucked at him. "If you did not want to see me, _cher Angleterre_, you would not have freed me from my sleeping shell." There was little he could do to argue with that, and in a quick decision Britain shifted, hands rising to undo the snaps at the top of Gallia's grey Navigator bodysuit. His fingers then fell on the hidden zipper, pulling it down as he leaned forward, nipping at the Frenchman's ear.

"Then put up or shut up, you fucking frog, I haven't got all day." A small 'honhon' echoed against his skin and then Gallia was trailing his lips up, ghosting a response over Britain's mouth as amused and darkening blue stabbed into him, curling tight electricity in his gut.

"Oh, I do quite intend to be a 'fucking frog', as you so eloquently put it, _mon petit_ Ar—"

Britain cut him off with a kiss. He didn't want to hear _that _name.

Not now.

(…Not ever again.)

: : :

"Aiyah! Don't run in here, aru, it's dangerous!" China barked out at Prussia as he nearly fell through the doorway leading to the infirmary section of the ship as it slid open, eyes wild and breathing hard. The German practically yelled in response, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"No time for that! Where's Austria?" Upon hearing the loud tone, China glanced sharply at the other Doctor's curious eyes, communicating with a look to continue the blood tests without him. Belgium nodded silently, waving to Hong Kong down the hall that she would need a bit of assistance. China briefly let his eyes rest on the apprentice nurse as the pair walked away to the testing room before settling his gaze belligerently on Prussia and advancing. Prussia blinked, backing up a step—and then a few more, so soon he was entirely outside of the room, China facing him in the hall with a frown. The door slid shut behind him, and his hands ducked into their customized white sleeves (long and loose, like the ones from Old China's ancient paintings).

"He just went to take a break, aru. What do you want with Austria?" Prussia huffed, shoving his hands in his grungy-and-well-worn red Mechanic bodysuit's front pockets and glaring right back.

"Why's it any of your business, eh? When will he be—" A mildly aristocratic voice echoed out from behind him (albeit a little ways away, yet), then.

"Prussia?" He spun around, grinning and showing all his teeth as he grabbed the Austrian by the elbow and hauled him down the hall and away from China's suspicious ears. Prussia gave him a glare over his shoulder and China huffed, turning to go back into the infirmary. Austria glared at Prussia, delicately moving to take his hand off his arm as the door to the sick bay slid shut yet again. "Would you mind releasing me? Given the state of your attire _you_ may not care for a few smudges, but in the profession I work even the slightest compromising of the sterile environment can be—"

"16's awake. 12 knows." Austria stared at him for a moment, utterly flummoxed. Then Austria swallowed, quietly, looking away as he relaxed, no longer trying to pull out of the hand that was wrinkling the elbow of his pristine white Doctor's bodysuit.

"T-Then 12 is… ?"

"I don't know. But soon." Austria nodded, expression troubled for a moment. Dark eyes glanced up.

"Have you told Hungary yet?" Prussia shook his head, cocking a crooked smile.

"Nah, I don't know her schedule well enough, but I figured you'd be here, so—" He trailed off as Austria nodded, drawing back and straightening. His hands were clasping each of his own elbows in front of him. They were silent, for a moment.

"So, then… you will be—?" Prussia laughed roughly, rubbing a hand on the back of his head and looking off with a grin.

"Y-Yeah, looks like, don't it! As soon as 12 finds 13, then they'll come find me and then I'll get Hungary and she'll get you, s-so…" Prussia trailed off, awkwardly, again. When a few stony moments passed, he turned to go—and made it a few steps, before Austria spoke up behind him.

"If you would… like to come to dinner with us, Hungary and I have plans in about an hour." Prussia blinked, then slowly glanced over his shoulder in awe. Austria wasn't quite looking at him, expression schooled into careful austerity. A slow, wide grin split his face, then, and he ran up to whack Austria (who winced) on the back of his shoulder good-heartedly, laugh like the chips of an ancient buzz-saw in the otherwise-silent hall.

"H-Hell yeah! I mean, not that I haven't got anything better to do, but since you've invited me and all I wouldn't dare deprive you of my amazing presence since it's so obvious you'd be lacking without it, hahaha!" Austria wrinkled his nose, eying him for a moment before nodding and gracefully ducking out from under his hand, even going so far as to _pluck_ the wrist off himself as though it were filthy (which was true, to an extent—Prussia _did_ work as a Mechanic, after all).

"Yes, well. Give me an hour, then. We should…" Here Austria paused, glancing towards him quietly. "—catch up, shouldn't we?" Prussia grinned so hard it hurt, but otherwise restrained himself and nodded eagerly. It had been a long time since Austria had said anything like this.

Well, when you realize you're possibly on the brink of the end of your existence, Prussia guessed that changed a few priorities.

"Yeah! Great idea! We'll make a party of it! Oh!" His eyes went wide, as though just remembering something, and he swore loudly, paying no mind to Austria's horrified look at his language. "Damn! In an hour, right? I just remembered, I've got to go see someone!" Austria blinked at him, then nodded. Austria understood what he meant—and it figured, right? That they'd make up just as they were going to disappear. Prussia snorted to himself, but plastered on another grin just for the sake of it. It _wouldn't_ get to him. "The Terry on this floor, right? In an hour? I got it, see you at E Entrance, then!"

: : :

On the other side of the wall, his ability (to hear things excellently, despite obstacles—a slightly loud conversation just on the other side of the wall was child's play) had China's eyes wide and his breaths sharp and disbelieving.

_Britain is awake?_

Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. Who else knew? How had Prussia and Austria figured out their order of activation? Did anyone else know? Well, certainly by that statement Prussia knew that France and Spain would activate him, and so had apparently just learned that England was 16—and Prussia even knew he would activate Hungary, who would activate Austria! China cursed to himself, running a hand up over his face, fingers raking into his hair as he slumped back against the wall, brows knitting. The entire web of secrecy was evaporating. No, no it wasn't. It was still salvageable. But, what to do, now? Britain was a handful in and of himself—arrogant, smart and with a sadistic streak that made them not the best of friends—but if he'd already woken Gallia… China palmed his face in frustration, only to look up suddenly as the door slid open and Austria entered, pausing to give him a quiet nod, which China returned. He watched silently as Austria then proceeded to ignore him as he took his personal patient chart off the counter and tapped a few buttons on the touch screen before presumably wandering off to check the status of his recent surgery patients. China took a deep breath, to steady himself. He had known this was coming, eventually. It was the same every time. And, knowing Britain, he'd wasted no time in waking Gallia from where he slept inside France. So, at the moment, they were likely—

Oh, he was _not_ looking forward to this.

…but just to be safe, China would wait to confront them tomorrow morning.

: : :

Britain couldn't get that face out of his head, ever since Gallia had so _unkindly_ refreshed his memory. His brother. His _little_ brother since as far back as he could remember. His brother, who he had doted on and cared for under his mother's watchful eye. Who he had adored as only an elder sibling could—well, except for when the younger boy began to grow out of his 'cute' stage and started playing pranks on him. Every April Fool's Day it was the same, and he was sure to watch out for it—but somehow the lad always got him, in the end. Britain assented quietly to himself that he likely let the boy win, because (without fail) every Halloween he would have his revenge.

He didn't like having these thoughts. Not these thoughts, not while he was here, lying beside a naked, slumbering Fr—Gallia (curled around him like he was some goddamned pillow), the only remnant of who he used to be. Fr… Gallia had been his best friend, for as long as he could remember. And that friendship had deepened, even as they continued to hurl insults and blows at one another. Because beneath it, they both knew what it meant. The instant they were both taken, they both knew what it all _really _meant. And they hadn't let go. They hadn't been torn apart, they'd clung to each other as soon as they realized they were both prisoners—only a cell apart, sharing the tight space with a dozen other abducted children of their respective nationalities. Imprisoned. But for what? They were ordinary people, weren't they? They'd always been ordinary people. Going to school, doing homework, going to work, going out with friends, laughing at some stupid joke or at the lameness of one of the school's assemblies… They'd done it all, they were nothing remarkable.

Why, then, had they been taken—ripped from their homes, their lives, just as the end of the world was dawning? Why were _they_ the ones chosen to survive, when hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of other, more-deserving people languished and suffered and died in the aftermath of nuclear fallout?

A nuclear fallout which soiled and spoiled the planet so that it was no longer fit for humanity to inhabit.

: : :

Canada watched America eat, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject. His eyes flickered up as America flipped another small, flat, square food chip into his mouth, grinning as the taste of a full-fledged hamburger with all the trimmings made his taste-buds and appetite sing with satisfaction. Thankfully, technology had advanced far enough that taste could be simulated without the atrocious cholesterol and fat count. Truth be told, most food chips housed basically the same amount of nutrition, just in different areas. There were fruit chips, hamburger chips (obviously), vegetable chips—and they looked just like the old microchips from way back, only in different colors and without the wires and electricity. Canada snorted to himself in amusement. Who would have thought that the people of Old Earth actually needed something to be as big as _palm-sized_, due to the size of the microchips in those days? Of course, those chips were nothing like what America was inhaling right now…

Ah, here was his chance, America was taking a sip from his drink.

Fluids, sadly, their scientists had never quite been able to miniaturize, as the human body did need a certain amount of fluid every day. It was impossible to shrink the proportion of a beverage (down to, say, a capful-size) and still retain the same amount of water. But the food chip innovation some hundred years back still saved quite a good amount of space that could then be given over to personal belongings, water or oxygen storage. Canada shook himself out of his musings, leaning forward over the table, his naturally-soft voice low.

"America. Did something happen with England?" There was a choking sound, then a couple of hard coughs as America pounded on his chest—his drink apparently having gone down the wrong way. As he looked up, an excuse was on his lips, but Canada kept his firm look of concern—and America melted against it, as always. The blond looked off, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand.

"W-Well, m-maybe… y'see—"

And so America spilled the whole tale of what had happened on their scouting mission, and how England had changed so much, afterward. Canada was silent, his eyes having gone wide. For surely, if America could come to that conclusion, Canada would—

"S-So… the legends of Empires… t-they're _real?"_ Thankfully, no one else heard his (unintentionally whisper-soft) exclamation, and America nodded, miserably, waving a hand about and being unknowingly loud.

"Yeah, I know, it's awful, England, he—" A hand on America's shoulder stopped him, and Canada blinked upon seeing China, his face drawn and looking like he was holding quite the tirade in on a tight leash. The fingers tightened on America's shoulder, China's stern brown eyes falling to the other's blue ones, brown hair pulled into a low ponytail over his shoulder stark against the white bodysuit he wore. His voice was soft, but firm.

"I am sorry about England, America. But you cannot go around saying such things so brazenly." Canada, typically, felt left out of this warning when China didn't pass him the barest glance—although he assumed it was best to keep it under wraps, with how solemn China suddenly was. America blinked up at China, frowning, brow knitting together as he opened his mouth to—

"Hey, but—" China cut him off, voice still low, knuckles whitening on the younger man's shoulder.

"I mean it, America. Do not mention the Empires again." China's expression softened, then, and he pulled his hand back, hiding it in his signature 'traditional', billowy sleeve as he bowed, slightly. "Please, America. What you know is what you know, but stay away from Britain. I will handle the situation." To that, China turned around and strode away. America and Canada watched his retreating figure in silence, until America turned back around to stare at his brother, expression blatantly confused, but voice (for once) quiet.

"I guess it's… something important, then…" Canada nodded, but looked off and away. Poor America. Losing England, so suddenly, like that—his thoughts naturally turned to Prussia, and he smiled a little. He should go talk to the Mechanic, today or tomorrow. Prussia could be quite the good advice-giver when he wanted to be. Really, there was nothing going on between them—w-well, n-not yet, but…

Prussia was still a really good friend, when he wanted to be.

: : :

Spain had to stay, if only for another moment. He had to lie here, had to watch Romano's sleeping face, had to lean in to memorize his scent, had to give just one last kiss and—

An arm looped around his neck and dragged him further into the kiss with a grumpy grumble, and Spain managed a half-forced laugh—for Romano's grumbling was always adorable and worthy of sweet laughter, but Spain was sad, this morning. They shared another moment before Spain reluctantly drew away and off the bed, stretching nude in the soft dim lighting (that supposedly simulated dawn on Old Earth) glowing in neat little rectangles hovering beneath the bed. They were activated by the usual pressure-detectors, of course, triggered as soon as Spain stepped onto the carpeted floor. One floated up and hovered a safe distance around his head, following him and casting light towards the innards of the closet as Spain pushed the door open. Romano rolled over in the bed, curling the covers around him as he peered up, squinting slightly at the lit rectangular cuboid hovering around the Mechanic's head. Spain idly tapped a random side of it with two fingers three times (without looking up), making the light brighten up three notches, to help him search.

"Nnmph, what're you doing up so early, bastard? It's only…" He squinted up at the ceiling, making out the digital letters glowing there. "Psh, 0900! Spain, get your ass back in bed! It's a Saturday!" To that, Spain only turned to smile at him—tomato-printed boxers with a lime green background and the loose white regulation tank top already on—waving a hand as he ducked his head back into his closet for a clean bodysuit.

"Mm, there is something I need to see France about, today. Go back to sleep, Romano."

'_Go back to sleep?' _

_Spain never says that. It's always—'Oh, Roma, if only I could, but~!' or 'Oh, Roma, do you miss me that much, already~?' or 'Oh, Roma! Did you want a morning round~?'_

Romano frowned at the tone, at Spain's refusal to look at him again as he slowly stepped into those dark red pant legs and hopped a little. By the time Spain had his arms in the long sleeves, the lengthy sound of the closing zipper cut through the silence like lead. Romano felt something unpleasant clutch at his heart. An old worry, one he'd had for as far back as he could remember, and could never quite quash. Spain had been acting weird since last night—and then he'd only thought it was a new assignment, but even on the mornings Spain would be leaving, he would joke.

'_Ah, Roma, I am going to miss you sooo much~! Here, let me see your face—' _And then Spain would squish his cheeks in and Romano would blush and Spain would giggle so Romano would flail and yell at him— '_Ah~! So cute, Roma!'—_and so Spain would hug him close and pepper his face with kisses before turning dramatically and heading for the door, pausing there to smile theatrically back at him (but it was all sincere—no matter how silly or ridiculous the gesture, Spain always _meant_ it, so… that made it all right), raise a hand towards him as though in yearning and then draw it back and clutch it into a fist atop his heart, as though capturing the emotions Romano evoked in him and holding them close and dear, forever. …N-Not that Romano was becoming a sap! He'd just been around Spain long enough to know what those gestures and lengthy, loving glances meant, dammit all! And then, after all that, Spain would leave and not be back for a few days, or weeks, or a month. But, today, right now—

"Something's really wrong, isn't it." Romano's voice was too soft, he thought—too vulnerable and raw. Spain turned away, pushing the two snaps up by his neck (with the flap that hid the full length of the zipper) closed. He tried a laugh, but it felt weak.

"O-O-Oh, no, Roma~!" The use of that damned nickname he usually hated with grudging affection made him cold. Couldn't Spain just tell him, outright? Romano scowled, crawling off the bed (in his boxers, of course—he never slept with Spain without at least partially dressing himself, afterwards!) and starting towards him.

"Spain…" Suddenly Spain turned, all humor gone from his expression. There was sadness there. Spain couldn't fake sadness. Romano felt his gut clench, encased in ice. Spain smiled kindly at him. Romano wanted to throw up. Spain slowly walked forward, reaching out to cup his cheek. Romano half-expected him to lean in and kiss him, but Spain only stared at him for a moment before blinking, and smiling that same, sad smile—and then crushing his world, so gently that it almost ached.

"We must be done, Roma. That is all there is. Do not come back here." He froze, unbelieving. Spain beamed at him quietly, before letting his hand drop and walking out of the bedroom. Still reeling from the shock, Romano collapsed back on the bed when his legs unlocked—staring, dumbfounded, at the floor. He heard the sounds of Spain moving about in the other room, slipping his shoes on—at the table where they'd eaten so many meals— His brain caught up with his mind, jolting him out of the heart-choking thoughts and he lunged up, dashing out into the living room, breath ragged as he held onto the threshold of the door for support, spying Spain just by the door, blinking quietly back at him in muted surprise. Spain smiled again, for him—smiled the same as he had all morning, and never had Romano hated one of Spain's smiles this much in all his life. The hurt welled up first, and he snarled, bellowing out his anger.

"What the _fuck_ are you saying, you idiot? You can't just— You can't just _say_ that and expect me to believe it! Dammit Spain! You're not supposed to… to—" Here Romano stumbled over the words, fighting with himself to say them, to shout them like he had a thousand other insults, but— "I-I… _hate_ you! It's been _six fucking years _since I graduated from the Academy and you couldn't tell me _before _now that you've decided I'm not worth it? Spain! I-I—" Again, he couldn't say it, so Romano just went with the familiar. "I hate you! I-I don't need you! S-So what if you don't want me, I'm a great catch and I know it!" It was all lies, all lies to cover up his hurt, but he couldn't help saying them—they tumbled from his lips with such ease, such fluid thought, that he couldn't help letting them out. And he glared at Spain, dammit, and he wasn't crying and Spain didn't look like he was almost crying, and—wait, what? Spain was crying? Spain turned around before he could be sure, and Romano sniffled softly, eyes and nose already running like a river.

"Th-That's good, Roma. Hate me. Hate me and never come back. I-I d-don't want to s-s-see you, again, a-anyway…" Spain's voice was shaking pathetically but before he could comment or call him on it Spain turned around and yelled at him, eyes squinted shut. "D-Don't seek me out, Romano! Stay away from me!" Then Spain slammed his hand onto the palm scanner at the left side of the door and ran out.

The sound of boots clapping furiously against the metal floor of the hall and getting slowly farther away was cut off as the door slid automatically shut. Blinking amidst his tears, Romano stared at it for a moment before cursing to himself and darting back into the bedroom to grab his green Fighter bodysuit that'd been tossed on the floor, last night. Like hell he'd let Spain get off that easily! He'd known the idiot since he was nine, and Spain had kissed him the day he graduated—Romano was thirteen, by then—giving him his e-mail and whispering for Romano to send him a letter when he turned eighteen. Spain had captured his heart first at the Academy, but they'd not gone any further until the day Romano (at that point a fresh graduate, ready for work ) stormed up to the door of this very apartment and thrust the small disc with the e-mail information on it (which Spain had given to him five years earlier, when he graduated) into Spain's surprised fingers. Romano had then forced himself not to run (for once in his life), and grabbed the idiot's hair in both of his hands, pulling him into a hard kiss. They'd been together since, and that was six years ago.

Romano would get to the bottom of this. He wasn't about to let Spain go without a fight!

: : :

_Remember to check my profile for pictures related to this fic~! Thanks for reading!_

_Fun fact: I have no idea how long this story will be, anymore. x.o;; ...Review, if you can? :3 -Fox_


	5. Erroneous

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Five: Erroneous

Word Count: 6,831

Page Count: 11

[Total Word Count: 33,672]

[Total Page Count: 52]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Spain/Romano/Spain, slight Greece/Japan/Greece, slight Spain/North Italy, slight France/England/France, slight France/Spain/France, mentioned Prussia/Spain/Prussia

Warning: Language, BL, lots of time jumps, trauma(?)

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Friday, December 31, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: Haha, Spain (and Romano) completely stole this chapter… [ **Props to **the fanfic author,** Sunny Day in February**, for helping inspire me to try and write my favorite 'Italy brother' pairing (and thus, kick-start me into writing again after a _painful_ one-month hiatus due to school)~! :3 (Go check out **her two long fics** here on FF—**"This Dance" **and it's sort-of sequel,** "Bottoms Up!"**—for some **excellently-written **and quite-entertaining** Spamano!**) ]

Heh, sorry this took so long to get out, guys. Finals plunged me under for about a month, and I only have a few days left for break until I have to return for a new semester. This break has almost killed me, I swear—I've barely had any time what with baking traditional foodstuffs and hopping to different houses and states and even across the country to visit family I haven't seen for two years for the holiday… and all. [ Also haven't 'really' spoken to the significant other for over a month, so that's got me a bit down. :/ ]

Bah, enough of my 'sob story'~! I was really tired tonight, but I finished this chapter up just for all of you (if anyone still remembers this fic, of course…)! And, see, see~! Even in time for the new year! [ I actually wrote most of it just a few days before Christmas, but haven't had time to get back and finish it for about a week… ]

Well, hope you enjoy~ I had fun writing a lot of this (even if it took me longer than usual because I've been so oddly, unnaturally busy). あけましておめでとうございます！２０１１はうさぎの年です～！ I hope everyone has a safe and happy entrance into the "Year of the Rabbit" (a.k.a. 2011)! :3

[ Next year it's finally the Year of the Dragon, again~! Yeeeeheheheeeeeeeessss! *_*~~ ]

: : : : : : :

Spain had barely turned the corner when he heard Romano in hot pursuit. He swore softly to himself, and tried to pick up his pace—but what chance did he have, really? The Italian trained every other day, at least, he was in top form. Spain also trained, but it wasn't to the extent Romano did—and this little fact became blindingly clear the further he ran, and the faster Roma started to catch up with him. Spain darted around a corner, crying out and duck-dodging to the side to avoid running over Japan. It likely helped that Greece pulled him against him in the same moment, and so Spain ended up more tripping over his own feet as he stumbled forward onto his knees, his instinctively-splayed hands stopping his fall. He barely saw Japan shake off his lover's arm and rush over to him, expression fraught with worry.

"Ah! I'm sorry! Spain, are you—" The hard, fast sound of Romano's footsteps thundered in his ears and the Spaniard was up in another moment.

"A-Ahahaha, I'm fine! No, really—" He laughed nervously and put his hands on Japan's shoulders, turning him around to face Romano, who stood—panting and red-faced with fury—at the corner Spain had just hurtled around. Greece switched his observation to Roma with a lethargic blink.

"Oh, Ro—" It was doubtful Romano noticed he cut Greece's greeting off, worked up as he was.

"Bastard! Who said you could dump me? I'm going to drag you back to your _goddamn apartment_ so we can have a _fucking discussion_ about this because _there's no way in hell_ I'm letting you get away after wasting over _ten years of my life_ on you because I—I—" Here the Fighter went red with embarrassment at what he had almost uttered, shoulders slumping and his tirade trailing off. Spain's hands tightened on Japan's frozen shoulders and he attempted a weak smile, trying not to let his resolve be affected by the sudden speeding of his heart. Ten years? Had it really been… oh, well it must have, right? He'd kissed Romano when he was only eighteen, after all, and here they were over ten years later, Romano twenty-five and Spain twenty-nine… Ahhh, had Romano really been thinking of him all that time~? The smile went brighter and more genuine as he forgot his reasons for running and Spain beamed, launching forward with a delighted squeal to hug Romano close to his chest—not at all hearing the small awkward squeak Japan emitted as he was crushed between them.

"Awwww, Roma~!" He rubbed their cheeks together, his face beaming. "Have you been thinking about me since that day I first kissed you~? Aw, you're so sweet, Roma, Roma~~" It was when Spain was leaning in to kiss that flushed face that he remembered the reason he'd been running. In an instant, he went pale and started laughing nervously again. Spain jerked back quickly, pushing Japan into the Italian's chest to slow him down as he whirled around and sprinted away, not even bothering to look over his shoulder or say anything else.

If he did, he'd lose his resolve—Spain knew himself, he _knew _he _would_. And Romano would only be hurt more if they tried to talk it out. Roma would beg him not to do it, and Spain would listen to him because he loved him so much. And then he would get in trouble with his superior for insubordination (in not allowing himself to be activated). B-But he couldn't allow it to get there! It was his duty, what he had been trained for all his life. A-And besides, whether or not Spain faced it head-on, it would happen. 12 would activate him—he wouldn't be able to avoid the once-France, forever. Spain—'Spain', as Romano knew him, was going to disappear. Better Romano be angry (a-and hurt—_god_ how Spain hated the idea he was hurting him!) with him and stay away rather than… rather than being hurt by a lie. Because it _was_ the end. There would be nothing left of them once EMPIRE0013 awoke from inside him.

_F-Forgive me, Romano, b-b-but it's for the best!_

Spain didn't even notice the tears streaming down his face as he ran (only vaguely registering Romano yelling behind him as the Italian took up the chase, once more).

: : :

Antonio stirred, shivering. The last he remembered, he'd been playing out in the bright sun of Spain, laughing with his cousins and then big men in a black van came and—and—

The Spanish boy's brows furrowed, as he carefully creaked his eyes open. What met his eyes was darkness, and the distinct shufflings of a large group of people, even if he couldn't see them. As his sight adjusted, he could make out huddled forms and shifted, gently touching the closest shoulder he could find, murmuring soft questions in his native language.

"Are you all right? Where are—" To his utter surprise the person turned to hug him close and sobbed, pressing his face to her flat chest. Antonio flailed for a moment before the scent and familiar voice registered, and he blinked, then tried to squirm away to be sure, but she was holding him too tightly.

"R-Rosa… ?" Another sob, and in jibbery Spanish she began to ramble at him.

"O-Oh, Toni! You're—! Oh, I was so scared, they already took Marco and Raphael and little Francesca, b-but thank goodness you're here, I—!" Antonio tried to smile to comfort her, lifting his thin arms to put them around his twelve-year-old cousin. Rosa had only a few years on him, but she was the oldest of the group. So bossy, so confident, so in control—it was a bit frightening, seeing her like this.

"Rosa, it's all right, _si_? I'm sure they're just—" She practically shrieked her dissent—stabbing the silence around them furiously with the sound—only hugging him tighter.

"N-No, Toni, you don't understand! The people they take away, they don't come back—" He felt chills. But before he could respond, before he could realize that this meant three of the people he'd grown up with all his life might be—a loud, obnoxious voice broke the air. It spoke in Spanish, but… some of the words seemed 'off', somehow.

"Bitch! _Shut up_ would you? You're not the only one in here, and some of us are trying to sleep!" The youngness of that voice, how the words were formed—Antonio blinked, and tried to look around for the source of it, brows furrowing as he ended up glancing towards what looked like a black wall. It happened to be right beside him—apparently he and Rosa were in the back corner of whatever room it was? He couldn't see a door… Antonio tried Spanish. After all, the younger boy had addressed him in it.

"A-Ah, I'm sorry, my friend! My cousin is just upset and—"

"Well, _he~llo_! _Welcome_ to the damned _hotel_!" The sarcasm in that angry tone was practically deadly. "Stop thinking about _her _and take a look _around_, bastard! You're a _freak_ if you're not upset!" That voice snarled at him, again surprising Antonio with its vulgarity as well as its unmistakable youth. He frowned, hugging Rosa—who was now clinging to his shirt, her face buried in his shoulder—tighter to his chest and raising his voice in order to be heard.

"W-Well, excuse me for trying to look on the bright side of things!" There was a loud snort, and Antonio heard some shuffling on the other side of the—wall? He scooted closer, and squinted, slowly realizing that it wasn't a wall, per se—more of a black cast-iron fence with very little room between the thick interlocking horizontal and vertical bars. Nonetheless, he leaned in closer, trying to peer through—only to blink softly as an accusing, chubby finger prodded through the bars. No doubt it'd been meant to poke his eye out, but it fell rather short of the mark. Antonio blinked, and glanced up, trying to find an eye that might be attached to that hand. A malicious dark glint answered him, and he caught his breath, instinctively holding Rosa tighter.

"There _isn't_ a bright side. Not here. There's just darkness. And once you leave, you never come back." Antonio smiled at him, carefully cradling his now-quiet cousin, chirping his response.

"Then we'll just have to leave, won't we~! Can't stay here forever, we've got school tomorrow~!" That glinting eye on the other side of the wall narrowed at him. As the ambient light at last settled into his vision, he could faintly tell that the other boy's eyes must be dark. Perhaps black or brown?

"You're a moron." It was hissed, another few fingers creeping through and wrapping around the bars as though trying to pull them violently apart. "I should rip your throat out. I don't want to hear your stupid voice, anymore!"

"Loviii, don't be so mean~!" There was suddenly another (admittedly much cuter) voice that echoed out from the other side of the wall and Antonio blinked in surprise as the first shushed the second in the volume of a stage whisper.

"S-Shut up, I told you to sleep!"

"Vee, but you were so loud you woke me up…" Against his better judgment, Antonio chuckled to himself. What was more amusing is that this provoked yet another reaction, sounding more like a frustrated groan and an attempted rattling of those heavy bars. That angry stare—of this 'Lovi', apparently?—was back, burning at him once more.

"S-Shut up, Spanish jerk! Don't you laugh at me! My family's got connections, they'll—" Despite the situation, Antonio leaned back on the white (he guessed, anyway, it was a lighter color than the bars, at least) wall behind him and grinned at those heated eyes, humming a little.

"Ah, I'd like to see you contact them from in here~" There was another frustrated sound and Antonio all but giggled. He was more surprised to hear an answering giggle.

"Lovi, this guy's funny~! Is he a new friend?" Antonio winced a little as he heard the softer, cheerier voice cry out in a whiny sort of pain—he'd guessed the first had done something to him.

"_Traitor!_ I'm your _brother_, you're supposed to side with _me_! Didn't I _tell _you? We don't trust _anyone_ here, because—"

"Hey, you two back there in the Italian section! Knock it off!" The voice (in Italian, naturally, but the key words were similar enough to Spanish that Antonio caught the gist) that silenced them boomed out over the loudspeaker in the room which Antonio's new… 'friends' occupied. The sudden loudness caused a few of the younger children (they almost sounded like toddlers, Antonio thought) bunched in there to start crying. The ones that had older siblings slowly stopped. The ones that didn't just started sniffling when no one paid them any mind. A few minutes after the babies ceased bawling, the second voice piped up—although almost in a whisper. Antonio heard shuffling, and then a hesitant few fingers wriggled through the bars, along with a kinder shimmer of another set of dark eyes.

"Ah, I'm Feliciano V—" He squeaked because of something Antonio couldn't see, and the hesitant attempt at a handshake was abruptly yanked away.

"_Idiota!_ Don't give the bastard your full name!"

"_Fratello_, that huuurt…~" Antonio just shook his head, smiling a little. He couldn't see much, he couldn't know what would happen to them all, couldn't know if they would still all even _be_ here, tomorrow, but—it was worth it to at least _try_ to smile, _si_?

Perhaps days passed. Antonio couldn't know—there was no light, not even enough to mark off the times he went to sleep. At any rate, it was a long time before the day came that he woke up and found that Feli's cheerful voice from beyond the wall was gone. It had been long enough for him to feel a crippling sense of loss so deep that he barely registered Lovi's awkward attempts to console him, and didn't even see the stretching fingers reaching out through the tiny gaps between the bars to try and comfort, somehow—despite Lovi's own must-be-wrenching pain at the loss of his brother.

Rosa didn't last long after Feli disappeared. At first she clung to Antonio day and night, but eventually she took to pacing around the room, spending her nervous energy as best she could. Then she started pounding on the door on the other side of the room, screaming to be let out in panicky, hysterical Spanish. Eventually, during one of these episodes, they took her away. And Lovi had been right. Once you were taken, you never returned. When they went to sleep that night, Antonio curled his fingers through the bars, searching blindly for a moment, hoping Lovi would—and the hesitant touch that came made him smile a little. They drifted off, each leaning on their side of the wall. It was warmer. Not as warm as it'd been to fall asleep curled up next to their respective family members, but it was better than huddling alone amidst the clusters of other dirty children.

Neither of them could have predicted that Feli, at least, was very much alive.

: : :

Gallia was drawing lazy circles on Britain's collarbone with his fingers (which were just as lazily swatted away) when there was a knock at the door. They both glanced up from the couch. Gallia gave a frustrated grunt when Britain made to get up, winding his arms around him and pulling him back down, whispering silkily in his ear.

"Mm, what's your rush~? _Angleterre_, it can't be anyone terribly important—" There was a snort, and the Frenchman hissed as the meat of one of his hairy arms was _pinched_, quite painfully. Britain disentangled himself as he was released, smirking rather smugly down at that pouting face as Gallia rubbed at his 'wounded' arm.

"I told the brat to tell the uppers. They should be calling by now." Gallia huffed, but slowly sat up as Britain wandered over to the door, opening it with a bored expression. It quickly morphed into surprise, then annoyance, as he registered who it was. He frowned and crossed his arms over his front, squaring himself in the doorway to prevent any entrance.

"Han." He eyed the white Doctor's uniform with distaste. Han glared back at him with equal displeasure. His tone was clipped.

"Britain. I take it Gallia is here?" At the mention of his name, said Frenchman popped out from behind Britain's shoulder, hands paused where they were hovering on either side of the Englishman's waist. He blinked—then smiled, slyly.

"Ah, Han. It has been a long time, has it not? You have come to fill us in on what changes have occurred while we have been asleep, _oui~_?" Not waiting to be invited, Han brushed past them both with a sour look.

"I'll make this quick. With you two awake, there will no doubt be more in the near future—" Tinkling laughter greeted that, Britain's bristling shoulders smoothly soothed by an arm draped over them, fingers plucking gently at the white tank top as Gallia began to lead him—forcibly—over to the couch.

"Ah, yes, yes, we should be seeing An—" Han gave him a hard glare and Gallia rolled his eyes at the chastising nature of it—as well as rubbing Britain's arm to keep the Englishman from snapping at him for his almost-slip. "Ah. I mean, _Aztec_, quite soon."

No sooner had they sat down than there was a frantic barrage of knocks assaulting the door. Gallia grinned, rising slowly to his feet and gliding over towards the door, voice mildly smug.

"Now, who could that be~?"

: : :

The door opened to reveal France—unchanged and whole, what a relief!—but then Spain realized _how annoyed_ Romano would be with him now (for breaking up with him for no reason), since it was obvious France was still _France._

"France! Q-Quick, let me in, Romano's almost—" France beamed, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him inside with a spritely laugh as the door slid shut behind Spain's off-balanced heel.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, my friend~! Not a problem! Come, then, sit down and we'll get things settled—" England was giving a wary look towards him but Spain was oblivious, fluttering in and dropping to a seat on the couch. He jerked up, nervous, as a rather violent round of knocks attacked the door and laughed anxiously as he rubbed a hand behind his head, looking off to the side as his cheeks pinked with the curses Romano was yelling at the door. Only then did he notice the dark look England was fixing him with. He blinked.

"England? Is something—?" China gave a sharp intake of breath, and Spain cast the Chinese man a curious glance. Dark eyes flicked to the door—and Romano's poundings from the other side of it—then back to him, narrowing slightly. China suddenly stood, voice clipped.

"Is _that _how you're going to let it end?" He smiled shakily up at China, feigning confusion.

"E-Eh? I d-don't know what you're talking about—" Smooth hands slid onto his shoulders from behind and he looked back, spotting a quietly-smirking France. Those hands started to massage his shoulders, the Frenchman leaning down with a purr. Spain shuddered a little, leaning away with wide eyes and utterly confused. Sure, France was affectionate, but he knew about Romano, so he'd _never_— That husky tone against his hastily-flushing cheek threw him off.

"Oh, no need to worry, _Spain. _Han knows all about us Empires—he _is_ one, after all." Spain jerked his shocked gaze back to England and China, disbelieving.

"W-What? T-Then—but you—" Spain's mind whirled, trying to comprehend. China frowned at him, striding quickly towards the door—hands clasping each other tightly at the small of his back.

"Spain—if you don't tell Romano what's going on, _now,_ you'll never get another chance." Spain missed it, completely, too lost in the revelations. China was… was 'Han', apparently? When had he switched over? What number was he? France _was_ gone? He _had_ had his Empire mode activated? S-So that meant England was— As if on cue, those French fingers began to wander up his neck, _caressing_, and England cast a narrowed glance towards him, voice tense and eyes flashing with—w-was that _jealousy?_

"Just hurry up and get it done, Gallia. This oblivious idiot is more infuriating than Aztec." There was a chuckle, and then Spain felt moist lips brush his ear.

"As you wish, _mon cher_~"

: : :

It was annoying to know they were ignoring him. Romano muttered with frustration, kicking the door. To his great surprise it slid open, revealing a somber China on the other side. Only—China wasn't looking at him, but rather behind him. Towards the living room? Frowning, Romano marched right in and immediately froze. A soft, lilting tune reached his ears.

"_Frère Jacques, frère Jacques." _He locked his eyes on Spain's slowly-clouding green ones, catching a glimpse of something sad before it was swallowed by the fog. Romano shook it off and resumed striding forward.

"_Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?" _His eyes narrowed, falling upon—France. _Fucking _France, singing something Romano could only hear as gibberish into Spain's ear.

"_Sonnez les matines~ Sonnez les matines~" _Singing like a _lover _would. The French bastard even _smirked_ at him as he continued!

"_Ding, dang, dong." _Romano openly shifted his glare to Spain, now, shoulders shaking with fury as he stopped right in front of the _damned cheating son-of-a-bitch!_ So _this_ was why Spain broke up with him? For _fucking France?_

"_Ding, dang, dong." _Romano reached out and grabbed the collar of Spain's red bodysuit in one hand, shaking it with a hiss as France silently withdrew. (He damn well _better _have, if he wanted to _keep _those filthy hands!)

"_Spain!_" Romano roared it, raising a hand to punch him, punch him _as hard as he could_ so Spain _would never forget_ that Romano _wouldn't stand_ for _that kind of_—

The wrist of his fisted, advancing hand was caught in a hard grip. The Italian jerked in surprise, eyes widening as he glanced down, meeting green eyes—and felt a shiver of something unfamiliar and cold strike his gut. Those serious, focused eyes took him in for a moment, then narrowed. Romano's wrist was thrust back at him with such force that he had to stumble backwards—and even then, he fell onto his rear, gazing up in shock as Spain stood in that same moment, observing him from above as an owl does a mouse. Assessing strength and pinpointing the weaknesses—

"_Yo no soy España."_ He couldn't look away from those eyes. They were so serious, so ruthless s-so—anything but Spain. His mind still not working right, Romano just stared.

"W-What?" What was Spain saying—Romano had never heard the Spaniard utter _anything _like that, before! He didn't have much time to ponder it, though, as glinting dark green glared at him in subtly challenging impatience—the comment, this time, in English.

"Who are _you_?" His heart leaping into his throat, Romano opened his mouth to try and say something. All he ended up with were more stupid stutters.

"B-But… S-_Spain_—w-what is this?" He tried a nervous laugh, glancing around the room at the other faces, as though they would show him it was all a joke. But England seemed indifferent, seated on the other side of the couch and looking off. France was showing Romano a mild glance of apology, and China… China approached him and squatted down beside him, face solemn.

"Romano. Spain is gone." He flinched, then quickly fixed the Doctor with a stare of such heart-rending disbelief that it was hard to take. China tried to smile for him, kindly placing a hand on his shoulder. "You should… go find Veneziano. Stay with him." The contact broke the spell over Romano and he burst to his feet, throwing the comforting touch off and pointing an accusing finger at the Spaniard staring with flat boredom at him.

(Romano was too obviously trying not to lose it or show how upset he was with that lack of reaction.)

"Y-You!_ Bastard _Spain! I'll never forgive you!" With that, he turned and sprinted off through the door. China wisely kept the tears he saw gathered at the corners of Romano's eyes to himself.

: : :

Ivan sat, his hands folded in his lap and a serene smile on his face even as the other children around him shuddered in fear of the men in full bodysuits with helmets advancing on them. They couldn't see their faces, and since they had been kept away in a dark room with little food and water—and no baths, for 'security purposes', or so Ivan had heard—for weeks upon weeks, most of them were squeamish when it came to adult contact. Ivan, however, remained seated on one of the provided chairs in the room. The other kids were too scared of what might happen to dare try sitting. The nine-year-old looked up as one of the men approached him. The group backed away, and the Russian soldier looked down at him—they could only guess by the angle of the helmet, since the visor blocked any actual view. A moment later, and the soldier lifted his head again, addressing the group.

"Follow." They meekly obeyed, Ivan taking his time to stand—and, as a result, ending up being near the end of the line. He laughed softly to himself at the chittering, nervous boys and girls around him. When they exited, there was a line of soldiers on either side of the hall. Ivan put his hands at his sides and held his head high, behaving well like his Mama had taught him. Like the well-educated child he was, he noted each of the soldiers' bodysuits bore a fancy cursive version of the Eastern European letters "I.R.I.". He wondered what that could stand for, as Ivan had seen these particular letters in that particular style scrawled on quite a few things since coming here.

The large group of children was corralled into a smaller room at the end of the hall, with a door at both ends. The kids at the front were admitted first, one by one. Sometimes the time between the last child and the next child varied—Ivan made sure to note this, trying to find a pattern in what was happening in order to cure his boredom. It didn't especially work. When it came to be Ivan's turn, he entered quietly, mildly surprised not to see a torture device, but instead a simple chair, with a table beside it bearing a helmet not unlike the soldiers' ones. He glanced curiously at the soldier who had escorted him inside, but the man did not look at him, only stared straight ahead, his arms folded tightly behind his back, bent at the elbows. It was then that a voice—speaking in Russian, of course—resounded over the loudspeaker Ivan hadn't even known was there.

"Seat yourself." Blinking slightly, he shifted over to the chair and obeyed (upon finding no reason not to). They then instructed him to put on the helmet, which he also did—after only a moment of hesitation and a reassurance by the disembodied voice over the intercom that it was only a harmless test. So Ivan did so. He immediately knew something was wrong when a collar suddenly snapped down around his neck from the bottom of the helmet, making it impossible to get off. Not that he _tried_, he just simply understood the basic laws of matter. He was very calm, staring at the room from behind the long, shaded visor. Ivan was a little disturbed that the helmet seemed to be airtight, and wondered (a tad morbidly, perhaps) how long it would be until he ran out of air.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gas hissing into his helmet. He naturally tensed up, here—who _wouldn't_, after studying the Nazi Holocaust (which was quite different from the subtler-but-no-less-destructive Neo-Nazi Holocaust that occurred exactly a century later) in one of their early World History classes? There was no time to react, though, as the gas suddenly made him rather dizzy. Ivan was barely aware of the collar sliding back into the helmet, and the soldier at the door walking over—so _this _was why they wore such helmets, was it?—and picking up the limp Russian boy as though he weighed nothing. Dimly, Ivan was aware of a part of the wall melting away to open into another room.

This one was far more bone-chilling than the last, and his fogged mind at last understood the reason for the calm, procedural sedation. Bodies—other Russian children, who had gone in only a few hours before him (why, there was the chubby girl from the south, her pigtails gruesomely gunked up with some unknown gel-like substance)—lay strewn in a pile atop a wagon. Ivan was momentarily stunned that this kind of genocide still happened, when the soldier lugging him over his back started for the foreboding-looking glistening tank on the other side of the room. Another dead child was currently being dragged out of it, and immediately Ivan panicked. He tried to move, but all that resulted was a useless twitch of his fingers. Something screamed inside him as he was dumped into the pinkish goo, and bubbles escaped his mouth as he sank under. It wasn't water. It both buoyed him and pushed him down, making him float, almost-unconscious and nearly incapable of realizing that his lungs were slowly filling with the substance. Ivan tried to cough it up—only to suck more in when he gasped for oxygen he couldn't get. He heard someone speaking over the loudspeaker, even as his mind started to float away as the seconds ticked by. Ivan couldn't move, couldn't struggle. He closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He didn't want to die here. He wasn't afraid of the I.R.I., or whoever they were. He wasn't going to panic. He would be fine. Outwardly, his lungs started to spasm for air, and Ivan vaguely heard the sound of the loudspeaker again, although the possible meanings of the words escaped him. Was it the drug, or were they speaking English? He didn't know much English—

"Subject is stable. Changing solution." He gasped in surprise as he felt something of the consistency in the substance he was immersed in shift, eyes snapping open as the liquid coating his lungs suddenly, abruptly _bubbled_, popping in small pinpricks of pain in his chest and the hurt started to clear his head, so he tried to shake it, only managing a vague nod. Ivan heard more crackling over the intercom. More words he couldn't understand.

"Subject is responsive. Proceed to Stage Two."

All over the world—in every country—pockets of children just like him were being abducted only to be tested in this strange tank. He couldn't know that less than .01% survived the exposure to it. Orphans, rich kids, middle-class—any child was at risk. The media kept it all very quiet, of course. Since the early 2000s, it had gradually but visibly devolved (in all countries) from 'objective news' to 'propaganda news'. By now it was up to the viewer's political standings what they would watch. And if the viewer didn't like a certain political tilt, they simply wouldn't watch it. This short-sighted tendency that lulled the common man into a narrow-minded, set mold of 'us against them' made tensions rise between the countries of the world, naturally. The blurred lines that had begun to be realized with the emergence of a global market were now sharply cut into 'you' and 'me' (or, to put it more bluntly—'bad' and 'good', respectively).

War was broiling. And the I.R.I. knew this. So they tested children, trying to get ahead of the game by adopting the youngest and most malleable recruits into their ranks. They were testing a top-secret new way of fighting. Earth's resources had long ago run out, and even the newer ones were beginning to look more like a curse than a blessing. Humanity was nearing an apocalypse. Treaties were shattering left and right as countries focused more and more on the differences between them, as opposed to the similarities.

But the I.R.I. wouldn't have it. They were building a series of floating cubicles—one for each country, the size depending on the populations—and had a branch in every country. The attempted condos a few hundred years back on the Moon and Mars had failed—the change in weight altered their orbits drastically—even resulting in the necessary destruction of the Moon so it wouldn't crash into the Earth (thanks to its skewed orbit from the added weight of all the second- and –third- and fourth-generation 'Moonies') and cause another Ice Age. They polled the natives of each country they were stationed in, weeding out the more aggressive ones with the 'you vs. me' mentality and quietly checking off the ones who were more open to other cultures. When the time came, only those who cared about getting along when the world was on the brink of war were worth saving. The I.R.I. had no interest in trigger-happy, narrow-minded individuals who would end up begging with force or money for a place on the life-saving cubicle when the time came. The I.R.I. would attempt to continue humanity's existence anew in space, with only the best and most accepting people selected.

Naturally, they were laughed at.

Ten years later—thirty years after the I.R.I.'s 'project' had officially begun—Earth lay in ruin, her mountains and shores clogged with corpses.

: : :

Frowning quietly in confusion, Aztec turned to glance at Gallia behind him.

"That boy was annoying. Who was he?" Was it him, or did Gallia smile a bit sadly towards him, even as the Frenchman walked forward to sling an arm around his shoulder.

"Ah, just another Country Representative, _mon ami. _Pay him no mind." Britain scoffed from behind him, striding forward and Aztec's face sharpened into a hard smile at the dark look in Britain's gaze that lingered on Gallia's arm against him.

"Right, no one important." Gallia pecked a kiss on his cheek and Aztec absent-mindedly allowed it, mind focusing on the task at hand. It came to mind, and he quietly grabbed Gallia's wrist, casting a firm glance toward him.

"We need to find—" Gallia waved a hand with a laugh, brushing it off.

"_Oui, oui_, you are correct~! _Mon cher _ Ar_AH_!" The elbow embedded in Gallia's diaphragm likely had something to do with that inelegant interruption of his sentence. The glare Britain was giving him could melt ice in the furthest corner of space.

"You are _not_—" He vigorously shook Gallia's arm, even as the Frenchman whined at the rough treatment, Britain ignoring it to point vehemently at a slightly-irked Han. "—leaving me with _him_." The Chinese man huffed, dark eyes narrowing in unmasked annoyance at him.

"The sentiment is mutual, I assure you. But the fact remains that Gallia and Aztec have their job to perform, and we ours." Britain scowled at him, and Han rolled his eyes, folding his hands behind him. "Britain, as your activation causes nearly half of the Empire units to wake, you are the best candidate for informing the captain of your existence. Your attempt to shove it off on America was appallingly irresponsible." The Englishman just scowled blankly at him.

"'America'? Who's that?" Han blinked at him, then frowned, chidingly, a bite in his tone.

"The _boy_ who brought you _in_. _That_ is America." Gallia cast a curious glance over towards Britain when the Englishman did not immediately respond. Green eyes flicked to him for a moment of painful memory, before it was swallowed up and repressed. Britain cleared his throat and lifted his chin, striding purposefully forward and out the door, his back straight and stiff.

"W-Well, then! I'll assume the Head's still up on the seventh floor? Hurry up, now, I haven't got all day!" Gallia waved charmingly after Han as the Chinese man marched after Britain, muttering under his breath. Once they were gone, he grinned up at his old friend, catching a spark of mischief in those green eyes.

"We'd best not keep him waiting, _mon ami_. It has been far too long since we were all together." The Spaniard smirked at him, expression dangerous and greedy, and propped an arm around his shoulders.

"I've missed you, Francis." Gallia pushed down the thought in the back of his mind and only smiled back at him, sliding a hand down to nonchalantly grope that fine ass. Aztec tipped his head to press an open-mouthed kiss on his neck and Gallia chuckled, free fingers sliding up to cup the Spaniard's chin, blue eyes molten.

"Should we celebrate our reunion now, or after we get Gilbert~?" Those green eyes lifted from under their dark brown curls, just enough to smolder passionately at him, an unkind leer curling Aztec's lip up in arrogance.

"His fault he wasn't around, isn't it? Not _our_ fault if he misses the festivities…" Gallia laughed low in his throat, sliding his arm around behind Aztec's neck to pull him down for a proper kiss with an accompanying murmur.

"Ah, you are so _right_, Toni…~"

Gallia tried not to remember a different Aztec—a brighter one, a happier one—lest the romantic in him lose itself to lamentation. What remained of his friend was enough. It was _especially_ enough, as both of the Empires slid to the floor, impatiently unzipping and pushing aside cloth to reach new yet familiar skin. Gallia shoved it further out of his mind as the old haze of pleasure began to take over, one thought only permeating his lust-driven mind—

It really was for the best that Antonio could never remember those Italian twins.

: : :

Antonio's eyes widened in horror, and he rushed forward, grabbing Lovino's hand and jerking him out of the line of fire, hugging him close enough that he almost shook from the heavy, terrified shivering of the young Italian in his arms. The Spaniard's back arched as lasers cut through his armor and into his skin and he gasped in pain, only vaguely feeling it as Lovi shifted in his arms, and hands cupped the sides of his face. Through the agony, he focused on worried brown eyes, a too-familiar mouth forming his name although the sound was cut out. Antonio smiled hazily, bringing a hand to hold one of the ones on his face. Lovi's face was hard to focus on, for some reason…

"Lo… vino… _te amo…_" The Italian choked back a sob, blubbering something about not leaving him alone, and Antonio closed his eyes. Just for a moment, really—but perhaps it was a few minutes later that he heard the crunch of heavy boots against the ground, and the Spaniard tightened his hold on his lover enough to steady himself and glance up, tiredly, at the troops that now surrounded them. With the helmets, they couldn't see the soldiers' faces. Idly, Antonio thought how odd it was. Were they all the same person?

Their next orders sealed Antonio and Lovino's fate for the rest of their lives.

: : :

Antonio woke up, staring at the bland tiled ceiling above him. A cheerful nurse appeared in his line of vision, and he blinked slowly at her questions, answering them when he could. When she told him to, he attempted to sit up, and when he succeeded she praised him and marked the progress down on his chart. He glanced out towards the window, watching the green trees flutter in the breeze.

Was there something in the back of his mind he thought he was forgetting?

The feeling persisted, and he eventually learned to ignore it. Francis and Gilbert came to visit, and he smiled at them, recalling their many escapades together. They exchanged a glance, and it confused him, so he pointed it out. Francis was quick to laugh it off as nothing, and Gilbert strode forward and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, face oddly serious as he stated that they would be there for Antonio, through anything and everything. Nothing could split them up.

It confused him, then, but Antonio eventually just decided it was one of those things he would never understand. Best leave those confusing thoughts to Francis and Gilbert, they'd been in enough mock-battles and training sessions together to earn that level of trust.

And still, he thought he was forgetting something.

Sometimes a stubborn, cursing voice echoed in his dreams—but that was all it was, an echo. It played as an undercurrent against thousands of other sounds, and was impossible to isolate. Through the rest of his life, Antonio lived without seeing anyone who even came close to resembling this voice. And then, every time after when he was awakened by the United Military to help serve in their wars, it would whisper to him, still. It eventually came to the point that he stopped trying to listen to it, despite the niggling feeling that it might be important. The voice never got any louder, and it was too indistinct jumbled in there with all the other memories, so what was the point of trying, right?

But for some reason, Antonio vaguely noticed that—after he came out of the hospital, that time long ago when there was still an 'Earth' to live on—Empires who had been friendly with him, before, now seemed scared of him. Antonio didn't understand it. He'd determined that he wasn't missing anything, after all, but… what could have happened, for that change to occur?

He almost wanted to remember, just to know why… but Francis and Gilbert said nothing, and he trusted them (they would tell him if it was important, of course!), so from then on he just focused on fighting and fucking. The three of them were best friends, right? It wasn't like he was missing anything, and Francis and Gilbert were up for a healthy round of training or sex anytime he was, after all.

But, sometimes, when it was quiet, the echoes still made Antonio wonder.

Where had that harsh voice even come from, anyway?

: : : : : : :

_Hm, hm. Is that a return of the plot I spy~?__ (Reviews for this would be kick-ass amazing!)_

—_I also suddenly feel like I'm going out on a limb, here. x.o;; Oh dear… Happy Holidays? j~j -Fox_


	6. Factitious

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Six: Factitious

Word Count: 7,874

Page Count: 13

[Total Word Count: 41,546]

[Total Page Count: 65]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Mentioned America/England, slight England/France/England, mentioned France/Spain, Russia/China, Lithuania/Poland/Lithuania, Spain/Romano, Veneziano/Germany, France/Prussia

Warning: Language, BL, time skips

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Saturday, March 12, 2011

Miscellaneous notes: _This would have been updated yesterday, but then I heard about the disaster in Japan and checking on the safety of my friends studying abroad there (as well as actually checking the reports and videos online—Sendai Airport being flooded, the nuclear facilities, Tokyo workers stranded in the city, trains shut down, aftershocks—what a catastrophe…) took precedence over writing this. I'm still worried about my acquaintances in Japan (such as my host family who I stayed with for a few days and the family of my Japanese teacher from high school). I've donated as much as I could, right now, but I'm just a poor college student—hopefully it will still do some good._

_[ Oh, did I forget to mention I'm a Japanese major at my university and have been studying the language since 2004 (so by now I have quite a few friends-who-have-friends-or-family there)? …Silly me. ]_

[3/6/2011: [I spent six hours planning more things for this fic, today…] Oh, geez, I thought I'd updated for this fic in January! x.x I'm so sorry~! (…Ahaha, I don't think some of you USUK fans are going to like me anymore, after reading the very!important—if somewhat short—scene between Britain and Han, later in this chapter… [Not that you liked me, anyway, after the FrUK in chapter three, but hey—!])]

_**Just so everyone knows, ANY Country Representative (CR) you meet in the 'present time' of this fic, was one of the original children abducted in the past **__(meaning, for example, the CRs Canada, Liechtenstein & Estonia were abducted children with names and histories, but since they are not Empires, in the 'present time' they don't have any access to their original memories)__**. Only a select few of these eventual CRs were given 'Imperial Special Abilities' (ISAs, as opposed to SAs) and codenamed ''Empires" **__(such as England, France & Spain)__**.**_

[ Anonymous Reviewer Maelstrom: …'continental tour'. xDDD ;; Ahaha~ Sorry, that and the 'pigtail line' (and 'little tomato heart'… pssssssh~!) just cracked me up. x3~ And _ha_, I haven't planned it out all that well, my brain just percolates on something and then when I sit down to write it all comes out all neat and organized… somehow. Oo; ( _Or_ I just make it up as I go along while keeping continuity and precedent in mind. x.x That works, too~ [And you get props for determining that the U.M. and S.M. split from the I.R.I. x3~ I'd already written the opening paragraph for this chapter when I wrote chapter five, so good job on guessing what would be coming~! :3] ) Also, for answers to most (if not all) of your questions in your Ch.5 review, check my deviantART (my username there is "kurayami3nobara"). Just go into my gallery and click on the "FANFIC: Empire" folder I just created and you'll find it in there~ Feel free to comment! :3 ]

**[1]** In case anyone's wondering, the United States broke up into separate countries along the major region lines, which are the United States of Northeastern America (U.S.N.A.), the United States of Midwestern America (U.S.M.A.), the United States of Southern America (U.S.S.A.) and the United States of Western America (U.S.W.A.). Actually, not much changed. Each region now designated a capital, of course. (U.S.N.A./New York, NY; U.S.M.A./Chicago, IL; U.S.S.A./Dallas, TX; U.S.W.A./Los Angeles, CA), but on the whole they still acted as single country—such as in defending each other in international meetings or with trade and taxes. Passports between all the F.U.S.A. [Former United States of America] countries were practically interchangeable, as the borders were undefended (which is the case with Canada and the United States of America, today). Because of this, the I.R.I. had only one headquarters for the F.U.S.A. regions, located near Washington D.C. (which was still regarded by the inhabitants of the F.U.S.A. as a historical center and important landmark). Children from all of the regions were abducted and tested on in this Washington, D.C. facility because the District of Columbia declared itself a neutral representative for the region now known as the F.U.S.A. It was thought that the larger pool of people (compared to nations with smaller landmasses such as England, France, Spain and Italy) would produce more children with the ability to survive exposure to the still-very-controversial-at-this-time 'mind-altering gel-like substance' the children were immersed in (not that enough common people knew about it for it to become a controversy), but in the end, there was only one representative which survived all the final tests and was declared a success. (Thus the reason there is only one America instead of four [which would make sense, given that all the states that once made up the F.U.S.A. have now been split into technically four different countries, but… Remember, this region of the world is weird. Early on in its history it broke away from England, then had a Civil War in order to keep what is now the U.S.S.A. from seceding from what is now the U.S.N.A., and then numerous other wars or treaties to set the final territory for the F.U.S.A. (Such as the Spanish-American War, Louisiana Purchase from France, etcetera.) The government-style of the F.U.S.A. basically became so ineffective that it collapsed in on itself and couldn't stop the regions from seceding, so it declared itself neutral to avoid war and to try to accept its losses and move on. Washington D.C. was still an important landmark for all F.U.S.A. citizens, at this time, because it housed monuments from all the presidents—who came from all sorts of F.U.S.A. states and thus, regions.] So Washington, D.C. still had unofficial [cultural] power. Just not as much official [legal] power. Get it~? ;3)

…hahaha, that was too (pseudo-)historical [and I'm not going to touch the political implications I 'accidentally' put in there with a ten-foot spoon…]. But I felt the need to explain why there's only one America (instead of four or five [four regions plus the neutral country of the District of Columbia]) and not confuse you guys too much with my 'if-Armageddon-happened' alternative world history. :3 Plus it was fun to explain, and I hope you guys like my idea for how civilization disintegrated enough that we actually had a global war big enough to make Earth uninhabitable~ Ehehehe, I have too much fun with complex plottings. x.o;;;

_Notes for the types of mechanicals in the U.M. (a.k.a.='Unofficial nickname' for the ship):_

FI-A=For CR Fighters, operates by an FS. (aka "Fighters" […yes, using the same term for both the CR-people and the CR-piloted ship is a tad confusing])

FI-B=Cheaper version of FI-A for soldiers, operates by manual controls. (aka "Minis")

FII-A=For CRs, Officers & Soldiers, can operate by way of its NT or just manually. (aka "Acers" [A+CR])

FII-B=Mostly populated by Officers and Soldiers, does not have an NT. (aka "Bosses" [B+O+S])

FIII=Individualized fighter units. (aka "Marchers" ['March' because it's a pun, as well as the third month...])

FI-Bs look like a smaller, cruder version of FI-As (FI-As look like generic Gundams/Mecha/Whathaveyou). FI-As command the FI-Bs on the battlefield.

Outwardly, FII-As and FII-Bs look exactly the same. (The U.M. doesn't want their NT-carrying ships to be targeted more, right? They're not _that_ stupid…)

FIIIs are usually just for regular soldiers, but of course anyone with the right clearance can use one. It's the basic-basic ship everyone starts out with when they enter the U.M. (if they're not a CR, of course…).

**[2]**REVIEW FOR MECHANICALS: 

_(I recommend you use the 'Find in this page' feature to revert back to this spot, when needed.)_

NT=Navigational Tank, FS=Fighter Sphere

•**_ "_**_****__F_ighter"_ units are for the CR-Fighters, and are equipped with and operated by an FS_.

• "Mini" units are regular-soldier manually-piloted-from-a-cockpit smaller versions of Fighters, with no FS.

• **_"_**_****__Ac_er"_ ships usually have a CR-Team on them, along with an NT for the CR-Team's Navigator. _

• "Boss" ships have no NTs, but on the outside look exactly like "Acer" ships.

• "March" ships are for the lowest level of soldier.

_Hey, I hope you guys don't mind if from here on out I just abbreviate the United Military as "UM" instead of "U.M." (and S.M. as "SM", I.R.I. as "IRI", F.U.S.A. as "FUSA", etcetera, etcetera…), because it's a lot easier for me to type those acronyms without worrying about the periods, in there (like for NT and FS~). x.o;; _

_Also, CR=Country Representative, Empire=Empire Unit, EM=Empire Mode [They're actually different!]._

Everyone good on the logistics? Enough rambling, then! (Seriously sorry for how much there is, but there was a lot of background information I had to give you in this chapter, for some reason… x/x~ )

: : : : : : :

The IRI would attempt to continue humanity's existence anew in space, with only the best and most accepting people selected.

Naturally, they were laughed at.

Ten years later—thirty years after the IRI's 'project' had officially begun—Earth lay in ruin, her mountains and shores clogged with corpses. Biological weapons, nuclear weapons and the extremely new type of gun (which formed a bullet out of multiple layers of super-intensified ultraviolet light mixed with microwaves) were the cause.

And so, when the IRI launched all of its country-cubicles safely into space, no one was allowed to carry a weapon. As the centuries passed, the beginnings of Fighter units emerged, and it was decided that the only fighting would take place in space, between registered and highly-trained Fighters. Then, a division of opinion occurred. The IRI split into two separate branches—the United Military and the Soviet Military (named for no other reason than to honor the long-dead countries of the United States and the Soviet Union of the Cold War era from the latter half of the 1900s—although perhaps it might also have had something to do with the fact both of these countries were considered 'superpowers' during that war). **[1] **The main reason for this split remains unknown.

Naturally, tensions did not ease, because humans are humans and will always fight for dominance over 'another group'. Thus the slight disagreements between the United Military and the Soviet Military did not disappear, and soon the SM commandeered a few ships and disappeared into space. The UM had always been more on the side of technological advances, while the SM was better at the practical application of those advances. The split was a bad blow for both of them, as the top SM scientists could no longer work with the top UM technicians to produce the best software or hardware. Naturally, this meant that their technologies began to develop in different ways. Both Militaries recruited from every country, so as not to reintroduce the race-bias that fueled the final World War back on Old Earth.

As time went on, the competition grew fiercer and fiercer, and old flaws began to emerge.

: : :

There were only two of them left. Why only two? Vash had to wonder this as he kept a protective arm around the shoulders of the silent girl at his side. He glanced down to her from the corner of his eye. They were in a truck, and the slits of horizontal windows at the top told him it was dark outside. The two soldiers stared at them from their seats in front of the closed door at the other end of their mobile prison. Or, he couldn't tell, really. They only wore these massive helmets that covered every inch of their heads, their faces hidden by a thick shaded visor. Vash's fingers tightened a little more around her. No one had spoken a word since they had been shoved in here. He'd seen her before then, though. As the other children slowly were taken—while asleep, always while asleep (and the only reason Vash knew this was because he'd stayed awake for the first full week they were held captive)—he'd watched, and observed their movements. They came when most of the children were out, of course. Some were too young to be able to stay up very long, and the bare minimum of food and lack of exercise likely didn't help that, any. As the weeks passed and the crowd thinned out, he began to notice her, quiet in the corner. Her long blond braids were dirty, by now—he had to imagine they looked just like sunshine, elsewhere.

He didn't know why she was in there with him. They were in the same cell. Was it because their countries were so politically linked? Vash didn't know. All he could figure out was that half of the children he'd gone around and talked to, the first day, were from his home, Switzerland. The other half were from Liechtenstein. It made sense, really. But that didn't make it any less horrible. He wondered how Mama and Papa, and his younger brothers were doing without him…

After being immersed in that tank, he couldn't exactly say he felt any different. Certainly, there was a crackling at the edge of his senses that hadn't been there, before—and his lungs now seemed oddly sensitive to the air around him. But what could it mean? Vash hadn't been able to hold on long enough to know all the tests they did—he'd lost consciousness after only Stage Three. Somehow he'd managed to understand it—that muffled voice over the intercom. But what did "Stage Three" even mean? This organization—IRI, whatever that stood for, because he'd seen their emblem emblazoned on the hall he walked down, with the other children—was obviously well-supplied. Government-funded? Or was this something bigger? His mind whirred with theories about what was going on, all of them coming up blank. Granted, he was only fourteen so he could hardly hope to understand much, but—

A small movement jarred him, and he tensed. The soldiers at the other end of the truck watched him, warily, and slowly Vash realized that it hadn't been them. Small but strong fingers had caught into his trouser thigh, and he glanced down to his side at them, before lifting his gaze. The garish bright patch (in comparison to the black bodysuit) on the left side of her chest which held Liechtenstein's flag burned into his vision from the dim lighting, first. A rectangle, cut horizontally through the center with royal blue on top, red on the bottom and a crown at the upper right hand corner. Vash blinked when she tugged gently, again, with a hesitant smile. She lifted that hand once she knew she had his attention and touched the tips of her fingers to the Swiss emblem adorning his own front. Well… at least they knew how to find one another. He smiled awkwardly back at her—he wasn't used to dealing with girls, more comfortable with barking out orders to his two young twin brothers who were always tearing up the house and the slightly older pair who—

"Elise Vogel." **[5]** The voice was soft, but not hesitant, and the green eyes he blinked at observed him steadily, waiting for a response. After a moment he smiled a little, and she blinked gently at him in return.

"Vash Zwingli. I guess I'm going to be like your older brother, right… ?" He tried to force a little laugh, at this, but his mouth only twitched stiffly at the corner. Elise blinked at him a few times in succession. Despite her quiet tone, she had no issue contradicting him.

"But… then you are older than me? I'm fifteen—" Vash felt his cheeks grow warm, at that, and coughed into his hand, looking hastily away. A small part of his mind chided him for assuming, while the other parts sought to completely ignore the unrelenting stares of the two soldiers watching their every move.

"O-Oh? Ah… well, in that case…"

"You'd be my little brother, then, _ja_?" She beamed at him, and he was a little amazed that she could do so despite all the hardships they'd been through. After all, seeing that pile of dead bodies had nearly sent him into a panic attack, even despite the sedative and—

She took his hand and squeezed it, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. He reddened only more.

"Do not worry,_ Brüderlein!_ I will stay beside you!"

Somehow, despite the distance, Vash thought he could hear his little brothers laughing at him.

: : :

Britain soundly ignored the silence echoing from the other side of the hall as they walked down it. _Just deal with him until we tell the Uppers, then I'll be able to toss his presence aside and go smash Fra_—_**Gallia**_'s _head in for being such a slut. _The thoughts left a bad taste in his mouth. Always. Always, Gallia was all over Aztec. He was all over everyone, wasn't he? What was the point, what was he expecting. Without realizing it, his expression furrowed into more of a scowl than before. Britain didn't notice as Han glanced towards him, slender eyebrows rising. They paused at the elevator, Han's hand activating the panel beside the sliding doors. With silence they stepped inside, and Han quietly pressed the button for '7'. As the doors shut he turned to him. Once they closed completely, he spoke.

"Is something wrong? You—" The hostile images his mind kept playing at him caused Britain to snap his head up, cutting him off.

"I'm perfectly fine, now stay out of my business!" Green eyes glared into brown, and Han gave a tight little frown at the rude response. His tone now chilled, he looked forward again.

"I was _merely _wondering why you reacted so oddly when I reminded you of who America was." The corner of Britain's mouth tightened, and he glared stubbornly at the closed doors before them. He reigned in his annoyance, though, settling for only _biting _out a response.

"None of your business." Han went silent, then, knowing him well enough to realize when any further prodding would do no good. After all, Britain couldn't tell _Han_ what Gallia had done… and it _shouldn't_ bother him this much. But now, every time he thought of that twit's face, Alf—his _younger brother's_ was superimposed over it. It made him sick inside. He hadn't ever seen the boy grow up to be the age America was, now. Britain'd been taken from his family too early. Hell, even the image in his head must have waned, that he couldn't even remember what his younger brother's face looked like before he'd gotten glasses. Fr—(he slapped himself, mentally, this time—for so often slipping and almost calling him _that_, even if it was just in his head!)—_Gallia _had always had a talent for remembering faces, so it wasn't surprising that he'd made the connection, even though there was at least ten years' difference between America and his younger brother. But even then—

"He was ENGLAND5668-7983's lover, you know." Britain blinked, disturbed out of his thoughts, and turned his head to stare, nonplussed, at Han, tone blank.

"What?" Brown eyes cast towards him shrewdly, then settled on the right-hand upper corner of the elevator—the opposite side from where Britain stood, on Han's left.

"AMERICA7648-3012 and ENGLAND5668-7983 were lovers, before you appeared. Didn't you know that? England's been hovering around America since before they attended the Academy. He switched his profession from a Navigator to a Fighter in order to watch over him. America was—" Gathering his wits (and closing his slightly-fallen-open mouth at the shot-by-shot information, firmly), Britain narrowed his eyes and interrupted.

"W-What is your point! It's not as though I _am_ that idiotic Country Representative—!"

"I wasn't saying you were!" Han had raised his voice, which was odd. So odd, in fact, that Britain found himself momentarily rendered speechless as Han glared at him, spitting out yet another comment. "_Merely_ that you should be aware of his feelings and _how much_ you look like England to him, so when you _act_ as you do around Gallia—who has replaced America's friend, FRANCE0698-1143, might I add—it _likely_ causes him some terrible heartache!"

As if to emphasize that statement, the doors before them slid smoothly open. In silence they stepped out, allowing the officers waiting to enter. As they were now surrounded by secretaries with shuffling papers and other high-ranked officers mulling about, the two Empires refrained from speaking on the previous subject. Britain's face was slowly growing more disturbed as they walked on, however, so by the time they stood outside the proper office, he reached out to grab Han's wrist—which was just about to knock on the sliding door. When the Chinese man glanced to him, though, those green eyes were aimed towards the floor, and off to the side.

"I'm not going to walk on eggshells around the lad, just because I look like his 'old lover'. He should learn to deal with the loss." _I'm not going to be someone I'm not, just for this boy's __**feelings'**__ sake. What about my own? Besides, I could never see him as—_ Not when America looked so much like his little brother. It turned his stomach to even consider the thought—the notion alone felt too much like pedophilia and incest for him to be comfortable with it. Oddly enough, Han gave him a slightly-comforting half-smile in response to his comment, and turned his wrist in his grasp to pat Britain's arm, gently.

"I know, Britain. Perhaps you're right…" He trailed off, and here Britain looked up, unsure of the silence—but Han's gaze was distant. Brows furrowing, Britain let go of him and rapped smartly on the door, jarring the other Empire out of his thoughts. He smirked back at him as he went to place his palm on the pad beside the door without looking—and not even waiting for permission.

"Let's get this over with." It slid open, and they entered.

: : :

RUSSIA6640-3975 hummed happily to himself as he flew lazy, wobbly-wandering circles around the Acer ship in their squadron. He counted the other ships off to himself. The one huge Acer was hard to miss, then there was his own Fighter, and a small sprinkling of Minis and Marches were surrounding the base. **[2]** He giggled to himself, peering up over the top of the Acer (which he'd just cleared), already hearing the irate snapping of his partner over their CR-private ComChannel.

"Russia! Stop fooling around! We need to be diligent, there's no time for this, you're wasting precious fuel doing these acrobatic tricks and—" At last spying his partner, Russia quirked a small, impish smile to himself and shifted his feet just-so inside his FS, causing the rockets attached to his Fighter's heels to propel him under the ship, giggling gleefully as he disappeared from his irate team-mate's sight.

"But Switzerland~! I'm just keeping an eye out for the enemy!" SWITZERLAND9213-4459 was possibly the only person in the entire UM who wasn't intimidated by him. Russia was rather delighted about it, actually. Although the fact remained that it was odd that the UM had just assigned them together, right off the bat—ah, he would've loved to get to know the other Fighter ITALY_ROMANO4429-3657_ better (he had such _spirit!_), but~! Orders were orders, after all.

"That excuse is no good on me and you damn well know it, Russia!" The Russian tittered to himself at the huffy quality of the other Fighter's voice echoing over the ComChannel, and he smirked, voice lilting in a sing-song.

"Maybe if you _catch _me I'll stay still~"

A different voice burst chidingly over the ComChannel, instead.

"Ah, Russia! Don't tease Switzerland!" He pouted. How unfair! He hadn't even done anything—

"But Ukraine—" She huffed, and he could almost see the Navigator's scolding finger pointed right at his chin (since she was shorter). It actually caused him to smile a bit. (They weren't in a battle—just on a routine security check of this sector—so she wasn't currently piloting the Acer ship from its NT.)

"No buts! If you don't behave yourself I'll call you both in." Muttering a sulky reply, Russia buzzed back up to his assigned spot hovering atop the right upper side of the Acer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Switzerland's Fighter reappear and take up his station on the left upper side. Smiling again, Russia waved merrily towards his partner, and the mutter he heard over the ComChannel was the only response before Switzerland turned his back to Russia in order to survey the space behind him. With a sigh—sometimes Switzerland was just no fun~!—Russia turned back around, as well, dully watching through the timed weaving of the Minis and Marches the vast expanse of darkness and stars beyond.

Space—when he was left to ponder over it too much—always had a funny way of making him feel alone. It was cold, and if you got stranded out here you'd only last a couple days on the oxygen provided in the emergency tanks. Unconsciously, the Fighter shivered to himself, shaking his head. He didn't know why he hated the cold so much. There was nothing especially frightening about it—yet the fact didn't change that he kept his apartment back at Headquarters a toasty 23.89 degrees Celsius [75 Fahrenheit].

There was a small blip in the corner of his viewscreen, and Russia blinked, eyes traveling down toward it, brows furrowing before lifting in delighted surprise. An e-mail from China~? Ooooh, perhaps finally China wanted to—he opened it, eagerly, and was slightly disappointed to see it was only a few words. Russia pouted at the shortness. Ever since they graduated from the Academy, China avoided him so much, so he had hoped—

Sulkily scanning over the glib message, regardless, Russia's face slowly grew serious.

Oh. So it had finally started, had it?

For a moment, all he could do was stare at the text on the screen.

_16, 13 and 12 are awake. 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1 likely soon to follow. Will inform 19. The time is here._

Oh yes, CHINA6770-8388 had told him long ago that he himself was an Empire. Well, perhaps not so much as 'told' as 'was coerced into telling' (and perhaps not so much 'coerced' as 'forced', but…). Russia had found it funny. Not long after China had stormed over to him in the Chinese man's last year at the Academy (delighting Russia and leaving England less one friend), China had quietly sat down with him in his dorm and pointed directly at Russia's chest_. "17"_ was all he'd said, and yet he'd had such a look in his eyes when he said it that Russia couldn't help but believe that China knew. He _knew _Russia was an Empire. So Russia did the only thing he could. He lunged forward and hugged the smaller, older man to his chest. They stayed like that. Safe from the cameras recording their every movement, China wrapped his arms around him in return (for the position to look natural) and murmured a three-sentence half-muffled sum of his history into his chest.

"_I've seen all of those like us—countless times. I could point them all out to you, even now. It seems like I've been alive for so long…" _Russia had tried to pressure China into telling him more, wanting to try and ease the weight off his shoulders, but China had then pulled back and looked up at him, face quiet and tone the slightest bit bitter as he looked off—careful with his words (careful of being recorded).

"_No. It is my burden, Russia. Just promise me, you will wait for that day. I will tell you when it is time."_

…So it was time, now? Russia felt something linger in the back of his throat. Would he know China, as an Empire? He'd asked that very question, but China hadn't given him an answer, only a cryptic smile and—_"That is not for me to tell. You must do your duty when it is time, Russia."_

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. So it was time?

"Russia, Switzerland, everything seems secure. Come in, we're heading back. Over." That was GERMANY3298-6744, their Technician, jarring him out of his thoughts. He was a tad slower to respond, as a result.

"Copy, Wilko. Switzerland out."

"Copy, Wilko. Russia out."

Russia began to pilot back towards the underside of the Acer ship, to the landing. He would have to remember to pop back inside his Fighter when they arrived, though. If China thought it was time to activate his Empire, then he would not disobey. It was not only a matter of trust between them—it was what he had been solemnly instructed to do by his superior, twenty years ago.

: : :

"—ssia? Russia?" The large man blinked, and cast a glance towards his nervous associate. LITHUANIA9800-2583 almost seemed to tremble in the wake of that innocent smile.

"Ah. Yes~?" The Doctor tugged on the grey cuffs of his white bodysuit, looking down, a tad unsure.

"Y-You seemed… 'off', after you came in. I-Is everything all right?" Russia's smile quirked a bit before he beamed, patting the Lithuanian gently on the shoulder. (He didn't notice as the younger man's knees nearly buckled.) So kind of Lithuania to inquire after his health~! (Granted, being their Team Doctor, it was his job, but still... !)

"Oh! Yes, just fine~ If you'll excuse me, though, I think I forgot to log properly off my FS." Russia gently (forcefully…) pushed the brunet away a bit, laughing softly at his own forgetfulness. "Tell China to come meet me down here, yes? I think he wants to talk to me~" Stuttering (but not really having a choice as to leave or not…) Lithuania flailed a little, before starting to walk, spying the other bodysuit-clad members of their team (Switzerland in Fighter-green, Ukraine in Navigator-grey and Germany in Technician-blue) slipping out the small door that led to the outside ladder on every Acer ship. As he drew closer, he realized, at this point, the trio was likely talking amongst themselves as they walked across the hangar towards the main entrance. Heading over to exit out of the Acer's landing bay, himself, Lithuania glanced over his shoulder one more time as he reached the exit. The Russian was still standing where he'd left him, but raised a hand in a little wave that almost seemed—melancholy? Lithuania frowned, but hurriedly disappeared as Russia's waving began to slow, and he swung himself around to carefully climb down the permanent raised metal rungs of the ladder leading to the underside of the ship. The rest of his train of thought on this subject was cut off as soon as he jumped down and was tackled by someone (in a tell-tale _pink_-colored bodysuit), their arms thrown around his neck as an all-too-familiar voice echoed in his ear.

"Liet~! You're back!" They teetered a little as Lithuania fought to regain his balance, but eventually his arms found their way around POLAND7725-0193's waist while a healthy flush dusted over his cheeks.

"P-P-Poland! B-Be careful, I almost—" The enthusiastic Pole huffed, pecking a kiss to his cheek before jumping back and putting his hands on his hips, arching a disbelieving brow.

"Oh, puh-lease—you totally did _not_!" Green eyes raked down over him and Lithuania shifted awkwardly, then squawked a little as his wrist was captured in a burst of energy. "C'mon, you look starved!"

"B-But I've only been gone a few da—" Poland laughed as he hurtled over to the entrance—dragging Lithuania along with him—slamming his palm against the pad to open the door before resuming his sprint, this time down the hallway. Lithuania caught a fleeting glimpse of Ukraine's hand over her mouth, stifling giggles—as well as Germany and Switzerland's deadpanned faces—as the door slid shut, cutting him off from all salvation. W-Well, he supposed there were worse things…

Such as the parade of 'accidental' pink bodysuits taking up most of his closet. **[3]** Lithuania winced to himself, and tried not to think too much on that—attempting a weak smile as Poland beamed back at him. He continued allowing himself to be dragged to the Cafeteria.

_W-Well—_

: : :

"Ina, you have to _move_!" The younger girl was barreled into, her only friend in this place rolling her shoulder into her and sending them both out of the line of fire. Coming to a halt beneath an artificial embankment, the Ukrainian girl's eyes welled up with tears as she saw a line of bright paint splatters along the black bodysuit her friend wore, although the rectangular patch over the left side of her chest telling her nationality (Hungarian) remained untouched. Ina hastily moved to cover her face with both hands, sobs leaking out from behind them.

"E-Erzsi—o-o-oh, I-I'm s-so sorry! You got hit! I-It's my fault! I—"

"Stop crying and listen to me, Irina!" Still sniffling, the Ukrainian girl peered through her fingers. Erzabet **[4]** was frowning at her, brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. There were muddy smudges on her face, from where she'd been dodging around in the dirt. A hand came to rest on Irina's shoulder, then, Erzabet's voice dropping.

"We have to get through this. You want to see your Mama and Papa again, don't you?" Hiccuping, Ina nodded shakily, more tears welling at the thought of her family. Erzsi spared her a small smile, nodding as well, and cupped her cheek.

"Then let's finish this drill. We have to do what they say, remember? And if we do really good, they'll let us go home! So we've got to try hard!" Erzsi's voice had gradually risen as she got more excited, and now both of her hands were braced on Ina's shoulders as she grinned at her. Ina felt her lips twitch upward in a little smile. That's right. Erzsi had to go see her baby brother back home.

The eight-year-old Hungarian's mother had been almost nine months pregnant when Erzsi disappeared. Ina knew this, because they'd been together from the beginning. They'd been the only two children in the truck, after they'd both survived that tank. Oh, it had been so scary—Ina had started crying as soon as the gas started to hiss into the sedation helmet. She didn't remember much after that—not until she woke to a bump along the road, and, trembling, pushed herself up to sit. The two soldiers had only stared at her, and tentatively Ina tried to talk to them—first in English (everyone learned English, after all!), then Ukrainian.

"_It's no use."_ A voice in the corner closest to her said, and Ina jumped in fear, spinning around to stare with wide eyes at the shadowed form watching her. Then Erzsi had crawled out into the light, and Ina had felt herself relax, even as her eyes welled up with tears. The Hungarian girl had then scooted over a bit more, hugging her knees as Ina wept beside her. Erzsi only stared straight ahead, never taking her eyes off the soldiers watching them. Despite her crying, Ina remembered exactly what she'd said.

"_They won't tell you anything."_

: : :

"_Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. Again, Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. That is all."_

Too tired to take heed of the announcement echoing over the intercom—(after mentally checking it had nothing to do with him, of course)— GERMANY3298-6744 headed down the halls to his living quarters. Yet, he did not expect he would gain much rest, even after a days-long routine mission.

Being friends with ITALY_VENEZIANO_2173-8852 meant that GERMANY3298-6744 had grown to expect a lot of things.

He expected that he would have to cover for Veneziano spending time with him, as opposed to the Italian actually doing his job as a Messenger.

He expected that he would have to bail Veneziano out, when he got in trouble for flirting with the new female recruits.

He expected that he would have to deal with many an angry boyfriend _of_ those 'new female recruits'.

He expected that he would have to convince the Uppers to be lenient with Veneziano whenever he fell asleep during his announced 'siesta hour' (the foreign word somehow managing to be integrated enough into English that it survived) or for not properly following the dress code (…by not dressing enough).

He expected that Veneziano would wander into his apartment in only his boxers.

He expected to be touched (or _hugged_ or _kissed_ or _hung upon_) without warning.

He expected Veneziano to burst into his apartment, crying over the smallest thing.

He expected visits in the middle of the night before he had a mission or presentation due.

He expected small explosions to go off in his kitchen at all hours, as the other CR experimented with combining different food chips, to try and come up with different tastes. (Much as chefs had done back with the actual ingredients, on Old Earth…)

He expected he would never understand how Veneziano managed to keep getting into his apartment, even though long ago Germany had taken the regulation palm-scanner out and replaced it with a complicated pin pad that would only open with the correct nine-digit code.

(…Sometimes it was better not to question how Veneziano got in. Made his head hurt less.)

He expected that he had grown all-too-used to practically living with Veneziano.

None of that, however, could have prepared him for the scene he met when he opened the door to his apartment.

First of all, there was crying in a voice he didn't know quite as well as Veneziano's.

Second of all, ITALY_ROMANO_4429-3657 was there.

Third of all, his lamp was broken.

…Oh, and Romano was also there.

…

Germany honestly could not name a time Romano had visited him.

He hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he should just turn around and walk out.

(…Despite the fact this was _his_ apartment and Veneziano and Romano had their own perfectly good apartment [which was left mostly empty because Romano often slept over at SPAIN6692-8247's and Veneziano didn't like sleeping alone] in the Fighter section of the living quarters.)

Then Veneziano looked up at the sound of the door sliding open, and his face instantly became relieved.

"Romano, Romano! Germany's here, he'll fix everything—" Germany could have sworn the crying grew in volume, to that, and Romano (whose tearful and snotty face was buried in an electro-net pillow on Germany's electro-net couch) started to kick and flail and scream.

…Yet Veneziano still managed to shout over him.

"Spain dumped him really coldly, vee! And he was cheating on Romano with France, too! Germany, you've got to help, something must be really wrong and I'd go see Spain about it right now but I can't leave Romano alone like this and—"

…Had GERMANY3298-6744 failed to mention that he also expected massive headaches when around Veneziano? The blue-bodysuit-clad Technician resisted the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

_Why me…_

: : :

"Remember, Marie, don't talk to anyone. Just stay near me." The Belgian girl rolled her green eyes, trying to tug her hand back out of the older Dutch boy's as the truck they were in slowly rolled to a stop, and the soldiers leaned against the doors across from them began to move.

"Abel! You're not my big brother! Stop acting like it!" **[5]** His straight blond bangs fanned faintly over his forehead as he gave her a hard look, straightening despite their still-seated position. He was pretty tall for his age, she had to admit. The serious look was also enough to make her bite her lip and look down, mumbling something like an apology. He sighed, squeezing her hand.

"Marie, I'm not trying to scare you. But we don't know where—" There was a creak, and light spilled into their prison. The soldiers with their shaded helmets were fine, but Marie and Abel were momentarily blinded, their eyes unable to adjust quickly to the change in illumination. This was taken advantage of, of course, as—while they were both still blinking, to try and see—a soldier took each of their arms and tried to force them apart. Scared and startled, Marie started crying and kicked and screamed as she tried to hold on to Abel with all her might. For his part, Abel tried to glare at them despite the spots in his vision as he shouted for them to leave them alone! Eventually there was an irate superior who commanded they be let be, and a soldier roughly took each of their outer arms—their inner ones still linked at the hands—and led them from the van (there was no sky, Marie realized—were they still inside somewhere, then?).

Their footsteps were lonely down a long, white-tiled hallway, Marie keeping the secure warmth of Abel's hand in the back of her mind as she craned her neck to look around. The soldiers were like robots—she couldn't see their faces, and she had a feeling that even if she could have seen them, they wouldn't show much. Frowning a little in frustration, she turned to Abel, who was warily watching the two soldiers led by an officer, in front of them. Two more trailed behind, not to mention the two flanking them (they'd been let go of as soon as their feet touched the ground, though)—lots of security.

_What could it mean? What are they planning? _

_And, more importantly, what was __**done**__ to us, in that tank…_

His hand tightened on Marie's, subconsciously. She looked up at the sudden pressure, face confused as his jaw tightened as he continued to stare straight ahead while their slow steps led them further into the facility.

_What is going to happen to us?_

At long last, they reached a set of double doors. The two soldiers in front went to the sides of the hall, leaving an open path in front of them. The officer—with her back to them—pressed in a few digits on a number pad, before turning around, her hands folded behind her. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, eyes set and serious behind thin square frames housing her glasses. Her voice was crisp, English laced with an accent neither of them could place.

"Welcome to Base C site 2A. I am the Commander. You will be here for a while, so I suggest you get used to it. You have arrived just in time for dinner. After you are finished, you will be led to your rooms. Escape is impossible, and any attempt to do so will be dealt with harshly. Do I make myself clear?" Marie nodded hastily, green eyes wide. Abel only stoically surveyed the woman, before giving a slower nod.

"Very well." The doors began to open behind her. There was a soft buzz of chatter that immediately stopped as the Commander turned and entered. Marie and Abel were shoved to start walking by the soldiers around them, and Marie hastily began to scamper inward, dragging Abel along with her.

The room wasn't as big as they thought it would be. There were six rectangular tables set in two rows of three, each table with three seats on either side. Most of the them were already half-full (except for one with two, and one that was empty)—seats taken by children in black bodysuits, just like them. Abel could even see that they all had a nation's flag on a rectangular patch on the left side of their chest. Curious eyes zeroed-in on them. The Commander's voice, crisp and clear, startled him out of his thoughts.

"This boy is from Holland, and the girl is from Belgium. They are your new friends." And with that, she turned, walked around them, and left. The doors shut soundly behind her—Abel could hear the locks clicking into place. He tried not to think about it. He clasped Marie's hand tighter, only to be left gaping as she let go, shook him off and ran over to one of the children staring quietly at them.

"Hi, hi! My name's Marie, what's yours? Did you guys go in the tank, too? Wow, is it really dinnertime because I'm really hungry—" The boy she'd approached blinked once at her, before laughing, and standing to sweep her into his arms!

"_Hola! Oye_, you're so cute! Isn't she, Lovi?" Abel remained where he was, watching the scene unfold. A frowning boy with an Italian flag patch (this 'Lovi', possibly?) crossed his arms over his chest and looked off, muttering. Marie, for her part, squealed happily and hugged him back.

"You're Spanish? That's so neat!" The boy beamed back at her, smiling big and wide and carefree. Abel secretly hated him for it, his face beginning to grow angry as he walked over.

"_Si, si!_ I'm Antonio, and on the seat after the empty one next to me is Lovi, and across from us is Feli! We're the Fun Table!" He grabbed her hand, then, and pulled Marie over to the next table. Abel adjusted his course.

"Then, if you come over here you can meet Roderich and Ludwig and Vash—they're the Quiet Table, because they never ever have any food fights or do anything loud!" Two of the three just ignored the Spanish boy's enthusiastic introduction, while the third in the middle (a blond, with his hair slicked back) looked up, face growing strained as he offered a weak wave.

"This is Elise and Feliks and Laura—well, Feliks is a little weird, but—"** [5]**

"Hey!"

"—_Lo siento,_ Feliks! This is the Girls' Table! You might want to sit here, Marie! They're all really, really nice!" Much to Abel's growing frustration, Antonio then proceeded to dance further away, towards the back three tables. The Spaniard didn't slow down, but lifted his hand up for an epic high-five with a boy with white hair and red eyes who stood up and crowed about the awesomeness of it.

"And over here at the Kids Table is one of the best people in the world and one of my bestest-best friends—Gilly!"

"You need to remember that this is the _Awesome_ Table, Toni! And don't forget my two lackies, Simon and Perce! Kesesese… where were you two from, again?"

"Seborga!"

"Picardy!"

"Stop forgetting, O Great Leader!"

"It's completely unawesome!" Toni leaned down with a little giggle after the younger kids' outbursts, whispering in Marie's ear.

"I don't think you want to sit here, though, because Gilly's sort of territorial about his table—there's even a 'you have to be under this age to sit here' rule, even though he's over it—" Then Antonio straightened and pulled Marie over to the last occupied table. Abel began to silently fume, at having his 'little sister's attention so captivated by someone new. Didn't she remember five minutes ago, when they'd been all alone in that van, together? Antonio gave a sweeping, dramatic gesture towards a well-groomed blond young man who offered Marie a charming smile, his cheek leaned artistically against the heel of his hand.

"And last but not least, here—at-the-table-previously-known-as-the-Loner-Table-but-recently-renamed-the-_Lovely_-Table—is my _other_ bestest-best friend, Francis!" Humming happily, the Spaniard then spun around and began to skip back to his spot.

That is, until a plastic bowl of mashed potatoes caught him directly in the back of the head.

"You _forgot_ about me, you twit! How dare you! I'm here, too, don't pretend like I don't exist just because I got you in trouble with the Commander that _one_ time—!" Antonio slowly turned around, still beaming despite the fact one of the twins over at his table stood up with a shout.

"Hey, Scones-For-Brains, leave him alone!" The boy—with rather large eyebrows, now that Abel caught a better look of him—snapped in response.

"Belt up, Lovino!"

"Awww, why'd you shout at Lovi? He didn't do anything—" The big-browed boy pointed an accusing finger at Antonio, eyes narrowed and—watery? Was he _really _about to_ cry_?

"You_ forgot_ me! You—How _could _you? They're _new_, and to just_ ignore_ me like that during introductions is—" The well-groomed boy beside the blustering one slowly laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss his cheek, trying to placate.

"_Oui, oui, mon cher, _it was unfair, but calm down, no need to—" Any further attempts at peacekeeping were ruined as Gilbert jumped up on his table (his lackies following suit) with a plate of food in each hand and a grin wide enough to envelop a small nation.

"FOOD FIGHT!"

"Oh, _Mon Dieu, NON_, Gilbert—!" The entire room swiftly devolved into chaos after that. Abel ran to Marie and dragged her over to hide beneath the one unoccupied table—blatantly ignoring the well-groomed boy blowing her a kiss from beneath his own _Lovely_ Table. Across the way he could spy the Girls' Table taking their trays and sliding beneath to eat, while two out of the three occupants of the Quiet Table bravely did not move (barring the boy with the mole who had shrieked and ducked under as soon as Gilbert began to shout). Most of those (except the quieter twin, who had somehow latched onto Ludwig's arm and began to wail—Ludwig still attempted to continue eating, despite this) hailing from the Fun Table wasted no time getting involved in the fight, and soon it was a three-way match between the Ki—er, _Awesome_ Table, Fun Table and Lovely Table. Here, Abel turned, deadpan, to Marie, who was watching the proceedings with a grin—he kept a firm hold on her hand, to stop her from going up there and joining the fight. She glanced at him as he hissed at her.

"You _see_ what happens when you don't listen to me and talk to other people!" She pouted at him, and quickly stretched her arm out to grab a fallen vat of some jelly dessert on the floor, smushing it into his face. Shocked at her lack of hesitation, his grasp loosened and she bounded off with a gleeful hum, ready to add to the chaos.

"Oh, have some fun, Abel~!"

: : :

A wrench in one of the back pockets of his red Mechanic's uniform, PRUSSIA9627-8841 leaned against the workbench behind him, arms folded over his chest as he warily watched the quartet who surrounded him. Although his friends were smiling, he instantly knew something in their eyes had changed. The people in front of him weren't who they once were. The not-France was standing with a hip angled, one arm draped over his front as the other was propped up, fingers splayed in a considering pose over his chin. The not-Spain merely stood, feet planted firmly on the ground and arms at his sides—but Prussia could tell he was ready to move at any moment.

"Was this_ really_ necessary? I've known it was coming for sixteen years." Red eyes narrowed at the not-France, who smirked and casually flicked a bit of wavy hair over his shoulder.

"Oh, _non_, we merely—ran into them along the way." The not-France and not-Spain shared an amused glance that made Prussia's blood boil. Before he could say anything, though, those sharp blue—_**not **__France's_—eyes settled back on him.

"_Mon ami_ wakes three Empires from their sleep—not the least of them _cher _Gilbert, who sleeps inside of you." The accent on his words was annoying—FRANCE0698-1143 had never had such garbled English. At least _his_ had lacked the little foreign words thrown in here and there—Prussia hated not understanding what was being said. He glared, then, waving a hand to indicate the two other Empires who flanked the not-France and not-Spain.

"Don't you even _care_ that you're throwing people's lives into chaos, here? PERU1153-2900 and PORTUGAL6987-3453 had _friends_, you know. People who cared about them! You can't just think it's all right to take away everything they _are_ just so you can—"

"Be careful, _mi amigo_." The voice suddenly next to his ear made him freeze. A cold hand was wrapped around his throat, and when red eyes darted to glance at him, dark emerald glinted at him in return. No emotion, not a single drop. It scared him more than the physical threat did, even if he never admitted it. Prussia heard footsteps, and he glanced forward to see the not-France walking toward him, fingers combing idly through the small stubble covering his jaw, in thought. Those fine brows were knit, as though in confusion—but still, he did not tell the not-Spain to draw away. A quiet hum began to resound in Prussia's ear, the only possible source being the not-Spain. There were no words, just a soft tone.

"_Quoi? _'People's lives into chaos'? _Mon petit garçon_, you really have no idea what chaos is…" Out of his peripheral vision, Prussia saw the not-Peru and not-Portugal moving in, as well, but his gaze was locked onto those suddenly-dark blue eyes before him. Prussia didn't know what was going on. He couldn't move. (…Was it because of the music in his ear?)

"Can you imagine it? 'True chaos', that is? Have you any_ idea_ what it is like to wake up one day and find you have been _ripped_ from your home, your _family_? Do you have any vague conception of how painful it is to realize that while _you _have been spared, all of your loved ones have perished a slow, agonizing death?" Those blue eyes were burning at him, now, they were so close. Slender fingers took his chin in hand, and the not-Spain's humming seemed to grow louder—until it was practically buzzing like static in his ear.

"Do you know what it feels like to wake in an entirely different time due to circumstances outside your control? How futile it all seems, when your memories have been unnaturally extended past your initial lifespan and you are forced to fight and bleed and _die_ again and again unto perpetuity only due to the whim of—" Somehow Prussia found his voice past the tide crashing in his ears.

"T-That still… doesn't give you the right… to destroy someone's happiness—" That pretty face sneered at him, suddenly, nails pricking at his skin as they dug into his chin.

"_None_ of you Country Representatives are 'someone'. You are merely fabrications due to the United Military's meddling. _We _hold the true memories of your bodies. Without us—without our DNA being reproduced _again and again and again—_your pitiful excuses for existence would have never _been_." The not-France practically hissed that, eyes narrowed and cold and challenging him to disagree with his claim—and Prussia found he could not have answered, even if he had been able.

_**W-What?**__ What did he just—?_

" …Antonio, _s'il te plâit_. I miss Gilbert."

The not-Spain began to murmur actual words to that tune, then, and slowly—

"_Los pollitos dicen, pío, pío, pío." _

—Prussia felt everything—

"_Cuando tienen hambre, cuando tienen frío." _

—getting much foggier—

"_La gallina busca, el maiz y el trigo—" _

—and harder to focus on, even as a firm set of lips—

"—_les da la comida, y les busca abrigo." _

—found his own, that unshaved chin feeling tingly as it brushed against him.

(…And then it was all just oblivion.) **[6]**

: : :

**[1]** – In the Author's Note at the top.

**[2]** – In the Author's Note at the top.

**[3]** – Poland has a gal pal who is a Mechanic, who sometimes stays over. Lithuania is a Doctor. A red bodysuit put in the wash with a white bodysuit obviously results in a _**pink**_ bodysuit. Unfortunately, after the initial mistake, Poland has taken a liking to these rather-unique _**pink**_ bodysuits. As a result, an oddly-large number of white bodysuits of his 'significant other' have been 'inadvertently put in the wash' with his Mechanic friend's new red bodysuits. Lithuania therefore has to re-order white bodysuits much more often than other Doctors. He has considered putting in a request (plea) for the UM to supply Poland with pink bodysuits, but… (Color-fastness in clothing is apparently still a problem, despite their so-called 'advanced society'…)

**[4]** – Yes, I know Hungary's name "Erzsebet" (diminutive "Erzsi") is misspelled "Erzabet". Since it's pronounced "uhr-za-beht", I decided to do a phonetic representation for those not familiar with Hungarian pronunciation.

**[5]** – Elise(Ellie) Vogel=Liechtenstein, Irina(Ina)=Ukraine, Marie(Manon)=Belgium, Abel=Netherlands, Simone(although Prussia calls him Simon…)=Seborga, Percy("" Perce…)=Picardy, Laura=Luxembourg. (Names picked as much as possible from the ones suggested for them by Himaruya-sensei.[Except 'Laura', which was listed as possible name for Belgium. Also, Seborga and Picardy's are just randomly picked by me.])

**[6] **– _"Los Pollitos Dicen",_ a Spanish children's song.

[ …I have no idea where the food fight scene came from. It just sort of escalated as I wrote. Kids are still kids, no matter the situation (I guess?), is all I can say in my defense… And also, hurrah for more plot! (Even if it took me over three months since the last chapter… otl Hopefully you won't have to wait that long for the next update!) …I also apologize for any typos I may have missed. I was sort of stuck on some parts of this chapter, and then just glided along through writing other parts of it… (Don't ask.)]

And to end on a more solemn note…

_**Please **__**consider**__** giving to the**__** relief efforts for Japan.**__ Every little bit helps. You can try the __**Red Cross website**__ or (if you prefer) go to __**Lady Gaga's website**__ and buy one of those __**$5 wristbands**__._

_Please remember—we wouldn't have Hetalia without Himaruya-sensei, or anime or manga without Japan._

_If you can't donate, please consider keeping everyone in (or with people in) Japan in your thoughts._

_-Fox_


	7. Gridlocked

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

**EDIT 9/28/2011: Gilbert's Empire name is now "Kaiser", not "King". Sorry for any confusion.**

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Seven: Gridlocked

Word Count: 7,650

Page Count: 12

[Total Word Count: 49,196]

[Total Page Count: 77]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Canada/Prussia, Cuba/Canada, Poland/Lithuania, England/France, Spain/Romano, Spruce (Bad Friends Trio), Russia/China

Warning: Language, BL, steamy sexual scene

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Monday, July 11, 2011

Miscellaneous notes: Hi there~! No, I haven't forgotten about this fic (it's been four months since I last updated, otl…), I've just been rather busy. :3 What with making YYH cosplay costumes for Otakon (at the end of this month~!) and getting back into my YYH 100,000+ -word fanfic "Second Try"—well, let's just say I've had a lot to deal with! And that's not even including family matters and work matters and such… x/x;; [ Also, this fic has been around for over a year~! \o/ Banzai! ]

At any rate, enough of this rambling~! I can't promise this chapter is my favorite, but it does have its moments and it's needed. I've been trying to write a little (roughly a section) at a time when I _have _ the time, so if it seems a bit disjointed I do sincerely apologize! x.x But I did polish off the last 2,000 words today, so let us simply rejoice in the update~! :D (Apologies for any typos, but I'll catch all of those infuriating rascals eventually!)

[ Hopefully you'll enjoy it despite all that, though—right? Right? j~j? ]

: : : : : : :

CANADA9903-6874 and AMERICA7648-3012 sat the in Cafeteria, the latter of which surrounded by all manner of food chips he'd managed to con from his fellow CRs. Canada had left a seat between them, to avoid being caught up in all the gorging. CUBA8098-5406 and MALAYSIA3647-0082 were seated on either side of SEYCHELLES5586-3791—all three clad in their red Mechanic bodysuits—and watched on as Canada at first protested this blatant show of gluttony, then resorted to giving America dirty looks (which were ignored), and finally simply gave up with a heaved sigh, turning to engage them in conversation. Malaysia hid a smile behind her hand as Cuba attempted to de-monopoloize America's small pile of food chips—by trying to steal a few, unnoticed—and Seychelles offered up the newest bits of news as to what was going on in the Mechanic sector.

"—and Prussia was wondering about you. Said you needed to relax more." Canada blinked in surprise, cheeks coloring as he tried to hide his red face behind his cup of water.

"D-Did he… ?" Perhaps, then, it could be an opening to ask Prussia to head to the recreational floor—? Smiling encouragingly, Seychelles reached across the table to pat his arm, gently nudging him out of his musings.

"Of course! You two should go together, Prussia's racked up a few free games—" Malaysia pitched in, then, grinning as the blush over the Canadian's cheeks spread to his ears.

"Chelle's right, he's got more Game Credits than he could spend in twenty years!" At last the topic reached Cuba and he turned quickly, slamming his fist down on the table which caused everyone but America to jump, startled.

"N-No, wait! Prussia's been taking too much time off, he'll get in trouble with any more—" Seychelles cast him a frown as Malaysia rose to Canada's defense.

"But he's good at what he does, and there haven't been any major battles lately, so—" At this point, Canada very much wanted to duck under the table and disappear, but just at that moment salvation arrived in the form of—

"Chelle! Like, it's been so totally long, ohemgee! How've you been?" POLAND7725-0193 flounced up to their table in his pink bodysuit, hugging Seychelles around the neck from behind with a laugh. Heaving a sigh of relief, Canada peered over the blond's shoulder to wave a bit at an awkward-looking LITHUANIA9800-2583. The brunet offered a shaky smile, then glanced to America in question and Canada sighed, nodding with a bit of a helpless one-shouldered shrug. Frowning a little in worry, Lithuania slowly slid into the empty seat between Canada and America before speaking up, voice quiet.

"I-Is everything all right, America? You usually don't eat this much unless—"

"Yeah, you tell 'em, Liet! He should save some for the rest of us!" Canada quietly facepalmed as Cuba cut in, America swallowing before glaring and pointing an accusing finger at the stouter man.

"Like you're one to talk! Look how fat you are, you must eat ten times the amount I usually do—" Cuba growled and lunged over the table, food chips clattering to the ground as he grabbed America around the collar, hissing at him.

"I've told you, it's a _genetic condition_! Ain't nothin' I can do about it, you glutton! I eat the same amount as everyone else!" America sneered at him, hands rising to pinch and pull out Cuba's cheeks.

"Yeah, just fifty servings of it!" As they got louder, Lithuania quietly began to panic while Poland and Seychelles took a moment to stare. Malaysia impatiently interceded, tucking her hand into the back of Cuba's collar and trying to drag him back across the table.

"Knock it off! He's had a hard time lately, Cuba, leave him alone—" Lithuania hastily began to distract America with quiet conversation while Poland toted Seychelles off with him to get some food chips for him and Liet, the pair talking a mile-a-minute. As America moaned and spilled all the details about his recent relationship drama (albeit lacking a few top-secret facts) to his concerned friend, the message Russia had instructed Lithuania to relay to China was unintentionally pushed far from the forefront of his thoughts.

: : :

The officer seated at his desk glanced up upon hearing his door slide open. Frowning, he looked back down to his work, waving his hand in dismissal of both of the CRs.

"England, if you have something that requires my attention, please make an appointment with my secretary. In a few minutes I have a meeting with the other officers which requires my immediate attention." To that, the man stood, picking up the flat metallic Filer from his desk, pressing a few buttons on the touchscreen as his attention diverted to that. As he made to pass them, England grabbed his arm at the elbow, grinning meanly when the man looked up, startled. When he registered the look, the officer glared.

"England, what is the meaning of—"

"Nice to know you're so out of the loop. Do you treat all of the Country Representatives holding Empires this way? So they don't feel 'special' and you can control them better?" Green eyes narrowed at him as the officer noticeably paled. He cast a furtive glance towards China, who offered him only a grim nod. Swallowing, he tried to force down the nervousness at being eye-to-eye with the infamous _Britain_. He'd heard stories of him, notes passed down through electronic journals, but to actually _see_ an England that didn't know him was something else entirely. There was something in the man's eyes that England had never, ever shown. Bitterness instead of resignation; rebellion instead of obedience. Straightening, the officer cleared his throat and nodded, not bothering to try and dislodge Britain's hand from its grip on his arm. He'd been trained for this. He couldn't show weakness around him, for the Empire would just take advantage of it. Empires were other beings entirely, they had been around so long it was like they were immortal. Not to mention the knowledge that someone who had actually _lived_ on Old Earth was standing before him was intimidating, to say the least.

"Y-Yes, well… thank you for informing me of your activated state, Britain." The Empire's brows furrowed downward, his eyes thinning in annoyance, and the officer found himself squeaking as his arm was grabbed tighter. "I-Is there anything else I need to know?" China stepped forward, then, casting a 'look' towards his fellow Empire and placing a lightly restraining hand on Britain's arm. Their eyes met with a spark of defiance, and for an instant the officer thought the air crackled with the force of it. After another moment Britain scoffed, though, and shoved the officer's arm back at him before going off to the wall to lean like a delinquent against it. After a beat he threw another glare over and snapped at China, who had been watching him quietly.

"Well, tell him the rest, I did my part." China sighed to himself before turning to the officer with a tired smile.

"Sir, Britain is not the only one who is activated."

"I-I that so?" Feeling a chill crawl up his neck, the officer cast a hurried look to the other Empire to confirm this, only to have his glance met with an unreadable stare. Fighting off another wave of unease, the officer took out his Filer from under his arm and with shaking fingers began to record what China was saying. "G-Go ahead, then."

"Gallia and Aztec are awake, as well. I also believe—" A small chirrup of a sound went off, then, and China frowned. He lifted a hand to press one of the buttons on the collar of his white Doctor bodysuit, speaking into it in a low tone. "Yes?" There was a pause, where the officer couldn't hear what was being said, although the thinning of China's mouth into a tight line couldn't mean anything good. China cut off the call soon enough, raising his eyes back to his superior.

"I apologize for the interruption, but Gallia has just confirmed that Inca and Tupi have been activated. With their assistance, he and Aztec are currently searching for Kaiser." Here China paused, and the officer looked up from his note-taking only to see the Doctor's gaze distanced towards the ground. When China spoke again, it was quieter, although just as business-like as before.

"Tsar will also be activated very soon." Out of the corner of his eye, the officer saw Britain stiffen from his place leaning against the wall, and so glanced over at him. He was rewarded with only a green-eyed glare, for his attention. The officer then hastily readjusted his gaze to the touchscreen, pressing 'Send to Database' and waited a moment while he received the results. Nodding quietly, he pressed a few more buttons on the handheld console, speaking evenly at the electronic device as it recorded his words in the utter silence of the room. Saving the file, he listened to it once to be sure of its accuracy before sending it to the queue line of the intercom system, filling in all the information of how long he wanted the announcement to play, and whether he wished to set it to repeat on a timer. A minute later, his voice echoed out of the speakers stationed around the entire ship.

"_Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. Again, Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. That is all."_

: : :

Their laughter echoed around the narrow hallways, causing not a few soldiers to glance at them awkwardly as they shoved their way through the crowds unavoidable in a ship such as this. They were quite the sight, actually. Aztec grinned at his friends, Gallia catching his eye and leaning in to kiss his cheek. The Spaniard drew him closer by way of the arm around his waist—which Gallia sighed into while contently shifting to 'rest' his hand just south of Aztec's waist. Aztec's other arm remained slung around Kaiser's shoulders, fingers tapping out a purposeful rhythm. A squawk of abrupt realization (morse code was such a handy skill, after all) from Kaiser caused Aztec to shift his grin to him, then, catching sight of wide red eyes and the shock lining his expression.

"Hey! You two already—? _Ohne __**mich**__?_" Gallia laughed in Kaiser's now-disgruntled face, his smooth accent gliding over the spark of mischief in his tone.

"_Mais oui_, I'm afraid we couldn't find you fast enough after _cher_ Toni woke~" Red eyes narrowed in annoyance and Kaiser grumbled to himself, looking away and yet moving his hand to rest it on the small of Aztec's back.

"_Halte den Mund_, you know that's not my fault—" He trailed off, then, casting Gallia a suspicious look. Blue eyes blinked back at him, guilelessly, head tipping effeminately to the side. Kaiser snorted at the façade, sneering at his longtime friend and pointing his index finger (the one of the hand which was _not_ suddenly warring for a spot on Aztec's ass) at Gallia's nose.

"Don't give me that!" Gallia snapped playfully at the extended digit, causing Kaiser to hiss and narrow his eyes before pinching the blond's cheek in retaliation! Aztec ignored this all, obliviously, instead taking in the familiar halls of the ship around him. He fought a small smile at how little had changed in fifty years. Well, of course, right? The ship was basically the same, as it had to be at least two hundred years before maintenance could start to insist they build an entirely new ship from the ground up.

"_Scheisse!" _Aztec blinked, returning his attention to his companions. "Did you guys manage to find a room somewhere, or is some stuffy old Upper scarred for life because you—" Gallia's laughter was sweet and merry (and Aztec cherished it for those exact qualities), and his fingers slid between Kaiser's to lock them together—still over Aztec's ass, of course. He cast a charming smile towards Kaiser, squeezing his hand gently with a fond look as they continued to walk. Aztec settled for sliding the arm that'd been over Kaiser's shoulders around his waist, humming a bit mindlessly as he fell into the old rhythm of being sandwiched between his most favorite people in the world.

"_Non, non, nous_—that is, we found a room that conveniently opens to my palm, and so used that—" Here the blond sighed, dramatically waving his free hand in the air with a flourish as his eyes slipped momentarily shut to add to the put-upon effect. "I simply do _not_ understand why they insist upon giving these CRs _different_ rooms every lifetime! It would make it so much easier on us if they merely assigned the same ones to the same CRs—" Kaiser snorted to that, nodding and leaning forward as they continued on.

"Not the first time I've thought that, _Mensch_!"

It couldn't quite be said that Aztec was bothered by the bickering-but-not-bickering going on around him—rather, it was so familiar and intimate, he didn't quite mind. There was something comforting in Gallia and Kaiser's presences, something eternally familiar that soothed a erratic part of his soul. Where that erratic part had come from, he didn't know. It made him full of chaotic, indiscriminate rage at the oddest times—but no one could tell, not even Kaiser (although Aztec had his suspicions about Gallia), because over the centuries he'd honed a rather impeccable mask.

And yet, that unstable part of him was always there, and he couldn't remember a time without it. It frustrated him, and only added to the anger building inside that he had no idea what the emotion stemmed from. Certainly, he had nothing that should spark his temper, so quickly. Aztec always thought he was rather slow to anger, really, and there was nothing he should be so upset about. _Nothing_ that would invoke such blinding rage and an irrepressible need for violence. He'd never liked fighting, he thought. Wasn't it strange that he always seemed to be a wrong whisper away from losing control? Had he always been like this—always so angry, even if it was hidden beneath the surface? If he thought too much into this, his head tended to ache, and Aztec did try his best to only let that rage out in battle. The UM always seemed to approve of his battle results, anyway, so his extreme methods couldn't be that big of a problem. That was all that mattered.

"—oni?" The voice in his left ear and warm lips on his right cheek stirred him from his thoughts, and his gaze fell to the side—on Gallia, as the Frenchman drew back with a small smile. Aztec blinked, before quietly smothering down all the conflicting thoughts and tipped his head to the left to regard Kaiser, who was watching him carefully. It felt natural, so he smiled to reassure them. There was no emotion in his eyes, but that was better. It was either no emotion or anger, and his only friends did not deserve that anger.

"_Lo siento_. What were we talking about?" Kaiser's irritated huff and Gallia's shake of head almost made him want to look sheepish, but the urge shattered against the iron bar of his will. Any lack of viligence on his part could result in an 'incident'. A moment of honest emotion could end badly for everyone.

"Nothing of importance, _mon ami_. We were just discussing whose turn it was to be in the middle, as last time _cher_ Gilbert tended to—"

"Hey, before that you skipped me _twice_, so I think I was entitled to—!"

Aztec let the familiar bickering lull him into absent thoughts once more, as they continued down the hallway to somewhere. He hadn't the faintest idea _where_ they were going, but it was _somewhere_. Perhaps that room, from before? But Gallia always seemed to know those sort of things, anyway, so it probably didn't matter if Aztec didn't.

: : :

A finger attached to a blue-clad arm quietly shut off the bug its owner had been listening to. After that, there was a quick succession of taps on the smooth touchscreen, soon leading to a darkened video feed appearing on his Filer. Something shifted in the shadows, indicating a person. The outlines on the wall behind this person on the screen suggested a blue-and-white flag of some sort, its pattern indistinguishable in the bad lighting. The UM Technician's voice was quiet.

"It is as we suspected. The E-Units have begun to appear, once again. You were right, sir. Fifty years ago it must have happened, and it is happening again. I can secure the identities of at least two of the Units. Would you like me to bug them to find the others?" A hand waved in the obscurity, indicating a negative.

"No, no, we will wait and see. Perhaps this time will be our chance. After all these years, we may finally be able to co—" A shutting door down the hall caused the Technician to start, glancing behind himself with narrowed eyes in the dark room of his choice. Without taking his eyes from the shut door, the Technician tapped in a silent message on his Filer, to be sent in lieu of a risky whisper.

_Someone is coming._

His companion on the other line fell silent, and there were two quiet beeps before the video feed disappeared, replaced by the default program which showed the statistics of his team's Navigator and Fighters, as well as the damage incurred on the Fighter units and Acer from their last battle. Someone burst in the doorway, waving his hand in the pattern to turn on the lights with the motion sensors, and when the light revealed his face the Technician knew.

"Where have you been, da ze!" The Fighter surged forward, grabbing his arm and starting to drag him out the door, babbling. "Ice and Beti are waiting at the Terry for you! Our celebratory lunch started fifteen minutes ago, and I still have to find Peru—"

"A-All right, all right, Korea! I'm coming, I'm coming, you don't need to pull!"

This was the Fighter, KOREA_HANGUK_9027-8332 (hailing from the cubicle known as South Korea). He was certainly _not_ to be confused with KOREA_CHOSON_6801-4966, of North Korea. The Technician's other team mates consisted of the Fighter ICELAND4809-5331, the Doctor TIBET1304-6599 and the Navigator PERU1153-2900. (No, the Technician had never dared wonder how "Tibet" had become "Beti"—it was simply better for everyone if no one questioned how Korea's mind worked.) However—much akin to the fact that ITALY_VENEZIANO_2173-8852 was usually referred to as Italy and ITALY_ROMANO_4429-3657 as Romano—KOREA_HANGUK_9027-8332 was known to most as simply Korea, and KOREA_CHOSON_6801-4966 as Choson. The reason behind such nicknames was quite simple—both Italy and Korea were much more social than Romano or Choson. As a result, many people did not bother with their longer (and harder-to-remember) 'official' names, and so this system had emerged.

But as he was dragged along by his team mate, the UM Technician could not help but feel relieved that Korea had just missed his little call. It would do no one any good if he was found out just as the Empires were re-emerging from their fifty-year sleep.

: : :

Romano was curled up in bed, under the covers, a TissUse clutched firmly in one hand. It was one of the earlier inventions, from when humanity had left Old Earth. With no trees to create paper, one company had gone so far as to make a reusable tissue that was always dry. It wasn't made of any disposable product, of course—it was just something that had to be washed, every now and then. When one blew into it, the microbes in the fabric latched onto the moisture and sanitized it, before then automatically drying. So one could use a TissUse over and over again—which was quite handy, at the moment.

For the past day or so, Romano had just stared at the wall in the apartment he shared with the other Italy. Everyone knew they looked a lot alike, but Romano just chalked it up to similarity in Italians (plenty of people back home in the Italy cubicle looked like them, after all). But there was something, somewhere, where they 'clicked'. Italy understood a lot of things Romano needed to say (although Veneziano couldn't exactly express that in words), but couldn't. They had met very young in their training, as North and South Italy were literally two halves of the same cubicle. In reality, they were divided down the middle, so it should have actually been 'East' and 'West' Italy, but tradition dictated the names of the countries (as well as what the people living in them identified as).

"Why?" His voice cracked, breaking the heavy silence in the room as Romano burrowed deeper into the electro-net bed. He bit his lip, bringing the TissUse up to his nose for another mighty blow as his eyes squeezed shut. _Spain. _"Why? What did I do? What did China mean when he said—how can you be _gone_? Bastard! I never gave you permission to—!"

"Romano?" He clamped his mouth shut, not having realized how loud his voice was getting. The voice was muffled, but it was definitely Veneziano's, so he curled up tighter. He was probably standing at the door, watching him, pitying him, secretly laughing at him because everyone always said he'd never deserved Spain, said he wasn't worth him and that Spain would leave him someday but he'd never thought it would quite be like _this_, because damn, he hadn't even _recognized_ the look in Spain's eyes and it was like Spain couldn't even _see_ him— Thin arms wrapped around him, a chest pressed to his hunched back from over the covers. Romano stiffened, then ducked his head down, grateful for the sheets that covered him from head to toe. He felt the form against him heave in a sigh, before a gentle whisper made it out. "Don't worry, ve? I told Germany to go talk to Spain and—"

"What!" At that Romano was up, and Veneziano flailed before tumbling off the bed with a whine, but Romano's wide eyes only stared at the top of Veneziano's head before the Northern Italian popped back up, smiling at him and climbing onto the bed, snagging his bare wrist with a chirp. (Romano's green bodysuit lay, long discarded, on the floor in a rumpled heap, leaving him in only a tank top and boxers.)

"Don't worry~! I told him to punch Spain's lights out if he doesn't agree to take you back." The only thing more disturbing about that comment was the innocent beam Veneziano delivered it with. His eyes were shrewd, though, and for a moment—just a moment, dammit!—Romano saw the sly face of the infamous Messenger peering out at him. He didn't allow himself to get nervous, but he did swallow before answering, looking away.

"O-Oh." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veneziano quirk his head, inquisitively. His thumb gently rubbed against the inside of Romano's wrist.

"Do you not want Germany to punch Spain's lights out if he doesn't agree?" Romano went silent for a moment. He thought of Spain's smiles. Days, nights, weekends—months of separation when one or both of them were on missions. Years waiting to get out of the Academy so he could find Spain, again. Movie nights, when they would pull old films out of the Archives to watch. Nights when they'd just pull some old Spanish or Italian music out of the Audio Archives, to dance to. Neither of them understood the words, but they didn't have to to enjoy the rhythm, the moves, the adrenaline rush as they danced the Tango, Salsa, Mambo, or any other number of dances that seemed to come as naturally to them as breathing. Romano remembered Spain's eyes during those times—his gentle hands and loving words.

And then Romano thought of the indifference on Spain's face scarcely a day ago, and felt his heart break just that little bit more. He rolled back into the bed, pulling the blankets over his head again with a mumble. Spain deserved a black eye and more for making him hurt like this—if Romano kept telling himself that, he would eventually believe it. He had to. China knew, China saw. Spain was gone—or had his 'Spain' only been a mask? Romano's chest ached with the possibility that it had all been just a cruel, lengthy game.

"N-No, that's fine." He heard Veneziano tarry a moment more—hesitant to leave him alone—before standing and leaving the room. When he was gone, Romano allowed himself to reflect.

Veneziano was full of mysteries. And actually, no one said delivering Messages was easy, especially to people on the front lines or those playing spies deep in enemy territory. But Veneziano was one of the few who could infiltrate just about anywhere. People always mistook him for an idiot, and he certainly was none too smart when it came to some things, but _people_ he understood. '_Exceptions_' he understood. '_Bribes_' he understood. Romano had been fortunate, actually, that his career test had determined him to be best-suited for a Fighter, not a Messenger. He couldn't do what Veneziano did, because he'd give himself away in a moment due to his temper. But Veneziano could do anything, pose as anyone, and do it completely naturally. Convincingly. If Romano had less faith in him, he would have been suspicious of Veneziano playing him, as well. But when he asked—half-accusing Veneziano of doing just that—the other Italian had just smiled brightly at him.

_"I don't lie to people I trust. And we're both Italians, so we've got to stick together, vee~!"_

Romano realized then that if there had still been an Italian mafia—Veneziano would have run it.

: : :

Germany wasn't exactly sure how he had come to be here. Specifically, that meant standing outside France's room in his blue Technician bodysuit, about to knock and try to talk some sense into Spain. And not that he had any intention of 'punching Spain's lights out' (as Italy had so insisted) if Spain didn't agree, but—he had never seen Romano so broken. There was something unsettling about the hot-tempered Italian Fighter reduced to a snotty lump on a bed—and no one deserved that. Even Italy, with all his flirting, never _seriously_ tried to break any girl up with her boyfriend. He was too kind-hearted. And yet, sometimes Germany had to wonder if he was missing something about Italy. He always seemed so harmless, all the time, and to be slacking off instead of doing his job—but sometimes Italy would disappear for a while. Not long, usually just a day or two. And not that Germany understood about what Messengers had to do, really. Italy had only told him they delivered messages, and that was it. So simple. But Germany still found himself wondering how someone so innocent could be all right with violence done to another person—no matter the reason.

Perhaps it was the same reason Italy could still sneak into his apartment, even with a nine-digit security keypad replacing the regulation palm-scanners?

…No, he'd best not think into that, too much. He had a job to do. Squaring his shoulders, the Technician knocked.

: : :

As they left the office, Han's Com went off again and so he quietly answered it. This time, Britain was close enough behind him to hear bits and pieces of the conversation. He reached in front of him to grab Han's shoulder after the call ended, and the Chinese man turned his head to regard him, stoically. Britain's expression did not waver.

"It's Tsar, isn't it." Han attempted a smile, to that, but it came out more forced than anything. He shook off Britain's hand and turned, shoulders squaring off and voice notably cooling.

"It is. I'd best go greet him." After all, nothing positive would come from keeping the Russian waiting. A lifetime ago, Han had learned _that_ particular lesson rather well. And so, in light of the dark memory lingering at the edges of the conversation, Britain kept any comments to himself. Han stepped away, and Britain did not follow. "It's been a while since you last ate, hasn't it? Perhaps you should visit the Cafeteria?" One brown eye peered over Han's shoulder at him, and Britain had to snort at the amused glint present there. Han couldn't be too scared of Tsar's impending presence if he was cracking jokes. Nevertheless, Britain turned his back to his fellow Empire, hands sliding into the pockets of his green Fighter bodysuit.

"I think not. Those food chips still taste like shit." He was aware his tone was bitter, but who cared? _What I wouldn't give for a proper fish paste sandwich and a goddamn __**actual**__ cigarette, not those piss-poor phony electric ones they try to pass off as—_ He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. "What room was this England in?" Britain didn't feel like dealing with Gallia, right now. Not with Aztec and Kaiser likely hanging around him. (_They're probably having an orgy right about now, so he's **certainly** not thinking of you_, his mind sneered jealously at him.) A quiet number was given in answer to his question, and without a word (to risk expressing his ill state of mind) Britain started to stroll away—even as he felt Han's eyes follow him down the hall. The Empire maneuvered himself around the secretaries and other Uppers, although most kept out of his way when they caught sight of his glowering face.

: : :

Sandwiched together in an escape hatch off of Floor 1 (the recreational floor), suspicious sounds breathed to life in the dark air. They had purposefully kept the lights off, so as not to draw attention to themselves, and the soundproofed enclosure was practically perfect for any illicit affairs. Aztec was pushed up against one of the seats, fingers curled tightly around the handles overhead while he watched with hazy eyes as Francis went down on him, again and again. A blue gaze sparkling with mischief twinkled up at him and he fought a smile which came out more as a surprised gasp as Gilbert's cock shoved itself deep within him from behind, yet again. The Spaniard's back arched, chest heaving as he panted and cool fingers wrapped around his dick, pumping slowly with the moisture given by that dirty French mouth. That same mouth was currently carving a pathway up to his neck, only to detour and nip at the underside of the bulging biceps helping him ride the achingly slow pace Gil had set.

"Does that feel good, _mon cher~?_" Endless affectionate French phrases slid into his ear, casting a musk over the entire hatch even as he heard the rumble of Gil's cackling resound from behind him. But something else was said, something Aztec didn't quite catch and soon Fran shifted, Aztec's vision going white for a moment as he trembled, feeling the Frenchman muffle a hiss into his bare chest. Slender arms slid past his ears and soon Fran had fallen into their rhythm—meeting Gil's thrusts and squeezing the life out of Aztec's pulsating organ now buried within him. More French and some German, meaningless words and utterances breathed into his neck and against his shoulder blades as they moved together, Fran's fingers buried in Aztec's hair, arms brushing the strained biceps that kept Aztec from completely resting his weight on Gil below. Soon, too soon—for it had been far too long—that moment fled as his world exploded in white, Aztec unseeing as Gilbert's hand sneaked around his waist and pumped Francis off to join them in oblivion. They rode the last waves of completion with jerky, unattractive movements and frenzied attempts to keep that pleasure at its peak, but soon it tapered off and Aztec's stiff and shaking hands at last relinquished the handlebars overhead, leaving the trio to collapse in a boneless, panting heap as their hearts desperately fought to slow down from that high.

There was a knock from the other side of the deflowered escape hatch's door, and Gallia raised his head wearily, smirking softly when he spied what lay beyond the small circular window of clear plastic. He lolled his head back, whispering breathlessly to Kaiser and the German started cackling again, the vibrations shaking Aztec from his not-doze, causing his eyes to creak open. He lifted his gaze to the blue one beside him in silent question, and Gallia grinned at him, leaning in to kiss his nose with a conspiratorial whisper.

"Seems the calvary's here to collect us, Toni~" Upon seeing that the inhabitants of the sullied escape hatch were making no move to greet them, the door was shoved open (it hadn't been locked, anyway) and an officer—the glinting gold boots, gold snaps and gold 'UNITED MILITARY' slogan over his right pectoral identified him as such—strode purposefully in. His purple bodysuit was shadowed oddly with the light from the hall, but Aztec could still spy others waiting behind him. (Most of them weren't officers—the black boots, black snaps and white 'UNITED MILITARY' slogan on their chests rather clearly gave away their station.) The man stood as straight and tall as the small room would allow, the very picture of professionalism, and Aztec absently placed his nationality in the back of his mind—German.

"0001—Kaiser—this is Officer Schwartz, reporting for duty." Another officer stepped out from behind him, bowing neatly with an arm over his waist and seeming to only raise his brows (more in amusement than chagrin, Aztec noted) at the trio's current state of undress. The Spaniard closed his eyes. Too obviously, this one was French.

"0012—Gallia—I am Officer Dumont, and will be your escort from now on, if you please." And of course, that only left—

"0013—Aztec—Officer Gutierez is at your service!" —the Spanish one. Aztec sighed softly against Gallia's cheek, peering ill-temperedly up at him. The other Empire smiled apologetically down at him, granting Aztec an open-mouthed kiss and soothing him with a bit of murmured French (that the officers and the two soldiers belonging to each could not understand, of course) as he began to pull away.

"It's fine, it's fine, but I suppose our fun will be cut short, from now on—" Kaiser snorted, shoving Aztec lightly so as to clamber out from beneath him, irate German gracing his tone.

"Goddamn Military, setting these kids on us like _we're_ the ones who need babysitters—"

Aztec just closed his eyes (with a rage-controlling exhale) and found himself unable to disagree.

: : :

CHINA6770-8388 watched Britain go with an unidentifiable look on his face. Just like Aztec and Britain had their disputes, so too did he and Britain. It seemed the Englishman was simply unable to get along with anyone for an extended period of time—except for Gallia, of course. The corner of Han's mouth tightened, and he quickly headed off to the Landing Bay. There were so few of them left, they had to protect one another. No one wanted what had happened to Antonio and Lovino to happen to them. And Antonio had been such a cheerful person before—well, what was he doing? Tsar was waiting.

Closing his eyes briefly, China forced the genuine smiles of RUSSIA6640-3975 from his mind. Even at thirty-three—four years younger than his current body's age—the Fighter had still managed to exude an aura of childlike naivete and innocence. That day he had left England's lunch table to join Russia's was with a mix of dread, for Han remembered too well what Tsar was like. But he had been proved wrong, hadn't he? And then he had had to command Russia to activate himself… Ah.

His eyes opened, once more. He still had work to do. Pressing the button of the Com disguised as one of his collar snaps, Han directed the call and soon heard a low beeping as it went through. Moments later, a familiar voice picked up.

"Eh, China? Something wrong?" He did not allow himself a calming breath. It was not needed, as his voice was quick and cool.

"We need 19. Get yourself into your FS, I will meet you in the Landing Bay." There was silence on the other end, then—

"H-How did you know I am—" China's tone turned crisp. He had no time for this!

"Surely your superior informed you of the details of your activation! Get yourself to your FS, and I will meet you in the Landing Bay. That is all you have to do." More silence. China's tone pressed deeper into annoyance. "TURKEY5597-0813, do I need to inform your superior of insubordination and thus initiate Sequence 483, which will result in you being _forcibly_ activated, or—"

"N-No! China, no… I-I'll be there. I'll do it." The call trailed off into a series of low beeps, meaning Turkey had disconnected. Han did so himself, at last allowing a sigh to break through. He did not like playing it like this, but what choice did he have? As soon as the UM found that his memories traveled from lifetime to lifetime—not just Wang Yao's, no, but every CHINA clone-life he had lived—without needing any activation, they had sought to try and prevent it from happening. (Almost like what they had done with Antonio, his mind whispered to him.) But they were unsuccessful. If they erased his memories upon birth of his previous life as a CHINA, Yao's memories were erased, too. No amount of attempted activations after that would result in Yao emerging. And with Yao's memories erased, the UM did not have Han's Empire abilites at their disposal. That was not a boon they were willing to part with.

And so, China remembered everything. He was not only 'Wang Yao' or 'the Han Empire', but also an uncountable number of CHINA CRs. He lived, and he saw, and he noted how differently each clone-life of a CR was led. He had served as a Doctor for hundreds of years, even though his current body was only thirty-seven. He remembered every RUSSIA, every ENGLAND, every FRANCE, AMERICA, JAPAN, INDIA… The list was endless. He remembered them all, and he remembered being told as far back as he could remember that his memories were a mix of countless lives as well as culture. China did not go through the rigorous mental training most of his fellow CRs went through. His mind was already full enough as it was, but he did go through standard training at the Academy. It was tedious, staying in one place for nine years and re-learning theories and practical applications he had perfected decades ago, but at the very least he always received top marks (even when he didn't study).

A few times he had experimented, had tried to branch out into other fields—Technician, Navigator, _anything_—but the UM was steadfast in keeping him on the mothership as a Doctor, 'safe and sound' as they liked to say. They had even chastised him for 'daring to be so selfish as to deny your patients the benefit of your expertise in attempting to seek a new assignment'! As a result, no CHINA CR was ever assigned to any team or ever got to go into any battles. No, every CHINA only kept the beds warm in the Sick Bay (among other uses, electro-net furniture could also sustain a certain set temperature) and attended to any injuries CRs or the regular soldiers sustained in either battle or training. The only time he was sent out was with his Empire team, when they were needed in battle. It appeared that time would soon be upon them. A wan smile wormed its way onto Yao's face as he strode through the halls, distractedly tossing his ponytail over his shoulder as cold sweat lined his brow. But no matter the boredom from those centuries of work as a Doctor, no matter the chaos in his mind from too many lives lived, no matter how 'useless' his Empire ability seemed in light of Britain's and Tsar's and even Aztec's—he would still wildly prefer that life as opposed to having to deal with Ivan again.

Ivan's mind had fractured, around the third or fourth time he was activated as an Empire. He wasn't mentally stable enough to stand the added stress of what his existence had become. And so, some time ago it had become rather obvious—in order to limit the negative impact on his brain, it had become split and simplified. The lighter side only saw Yao, and the darker side only wanted destruction.

Thirty-three years of borrowed time was coming to an end. It was longer than some lifetimes past.

And yet, it always seemed that Yao could never be completely prepared.

: : :

There were bright lights above him. Antonio blinked, squinting. He felt little suction cups against his scalp, and he was lying on a metal table, his arms and legs pinned down with straps. Why was he here, again? He winced as he adjusted himself as best he could, the laser-burns wrapped in bandages on his back not approving of the shift.

Antonio hoped Lovi was all right! The last Toni had seen of Lovi (after he'd saved him from that clumsy stumble into the line of laser-fire during a training session) was the guards directing him to his quarters before one stuck a sedating needle in his arm, and after that he couldn't remember anything—

A comment played out over the intercom in the white room around him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Subject Fernandez, Antonio Carriedo." He perked up at that, casting a smile up at ceiling, towards the source of the disembodied voice.

"Ah, _hola~!_" He tried to go on, but was crisply interrupted.

"Tell us all you know about the Vargas brothers, Feliciano and—"

"Lovi?" The Spaniard's brows furrowed, for a moment. It wasn't like the IRI to take such an interest in how everyone related to each other. They were more concerned with finding "Empire" subjects as well as training the "Country" subjects (like him), than social information. Why did it matter so much, now? But a moment later—

"That was an order." Antonio bit his lip, and looked off to the side. The cords of the monitors attached to his scalp shifted with the slight movement. He could refuse, but he'd been on the receiving end of too much punishment, already. For some reason, it was always about Lovi. It couldn't hurt not to fight them on this, right? It wasn't as though they could do anything about how he felt for Lovi, no matter how clear it was that they didn't like it. Hey, and maybe when the IRI finally let them go he and Lovi could start _properly_ dating, instead of just—!

"Subject Fernandez."

"_E-Está bien…"_ Unintentionally, the order had called up endless images of Lovi, and now Antonio allowed them to blossom in his mind fully. He had to smile at that adorable scowl—but a moment later he winced, arms jerking to try and hold his head at the burning sensation prickling from some small spot inside his skull. They didn't succeed, belted down at his sides as they were. He blinked away a few surprised tears lingering at the edges of his eyes, mind a tad fuzzy when the pain trickled away moments later and the intercom crackled to life, once again.

"We apologize. That is an unfortunate after-effect of this test. It is harmless." Antonio tried to nod, but it called forth another spark of discomfort so he stopped. The voice insisted, however, that he carry on. And so he did, summoning his courage and squeezing his eyes shut so as to better visualize and remember all he could, about Feli and Lovi.

"W-Well, Lovi and Feli are twins—and from Italy, although they didn't grow up or even live together until a few years ago when Lovi's papa died and he went to live with his mama and Feli—and Lovi's brow makes this cute little 'v' when he scowls—" They were his dearest memories, he held them close to his heart and cherished every rare smile he could coax from Lovi's eternally downturned lips. Something in his chest fluttered at the mental sight of all those rarities, and he almost didn't mind the much-more-intense burning which bled through his mind as he let the mental images play. As long as he could think of Lovi, he would be all right.

Little did Antonio realize that those memories were being systematically deleted even as he recalled them. The brain monitors attached to his scalp read which parts of the brain were active when he called forth memories concerning the Vargas brothers, and these sites were neatly eliminated by the IRI. By the time Antonio woke again—in a hospital bed, and soon to be visited by Gilbert and Francis—all thoughts of those two Italians had been utterly purged from his mind. It was as though they never existed, and were he to meet them there would be no recognition.

Not many weeks after this, Antonio would develop an ability of Empire class—thus cementing his place in the IRI's history as Empire0013 and "Aztec".

: : :

_I hope you all liked that? I did rather enjoy a few scenes in here, myself. :3_

_Reviews would be lovely—if you happen to have the time—but thanks for reading, anyway~! -Fox_


	8. Harbored

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

**EDIT 9/28/2011: Gilbert's Empire name is now "Kaiser", not "King". Sorry for any confusion.**

_Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?_

Title: Empire

Chapter Eight: Harbored

Word Count: 7,473

Page Count: 11

[Total Word Count: 56,673]

[Total Page Count: 88]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Russia/China, one-sided Veneziano/Romano, Canada/Prussia, Spain/Romano, one-sided Germany/France, Austria/Hungary

Warning: Language, BL, slight scuffle

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Thursday, September 22, 2011

Miscellaneous notes: Haha, this took so long to get out, but I've been keeping at it (a little at a time…)~! Seriously, I've been going crazy for the past two months (since July 11th, when I last updated for this) because I haven't had any_ time_ to write _anything _significant, so it's not just you guys suffering! My first time at Otakon was at the end of July _(I made three new costumes for it!)_, then there was moving craziness in August after being in the same apartment for two years and _this_ month I started my last official semester of college—Oh jeez, _stress_ much?

But—lucky for all of us—I found some time this week to polish off what I had written of this chapter. :3

_[ __**Yeah**__, this fic is finally over 50,000 words! Accomplishment! :D And __HELLO NEW READERS~!__ ]_

Lots of stuff happens in this chapter, because I got impatient with the pace and wanted to 'shake things up a bit'. :p Hope it's not too 'disjointed' to read and that you all enjoy, anyway~!

: : : : : : :

Frowning slightly to himself, ITALY_VENEZIANO_2173-8852 worked diligently away at strategically combining several food chips into a meal. Granted, the presentation left much to be desired—his results were nowhere near as impressive as they might have been, centuries ago on Old Earth. After all, he only had the rectangular food chips to work with, not the actual foods. So naturally, the end result would be nothing more than a few combined chips on a plate.

The Messenger bit his bottom lip, glancing in the direction of their shared bedroom. The thing with SPAIN4139-2267… His thoughts darkened. It wasn't fair that Romano was always so concerned over Spain! Sure, over the past few years Romano had seemed happy (barring his obvious frustration when Spain had graduated the Academy five years before Romano and Italy would), but Italy had never trusted Spain. He could pick up on something just under the surface, a secret of some sort that had Spain casting hesitant glances at Romano whenever he thought no one was looking. Italy was never far off, in those moments. Perhaps he preyed a bit too much on everyone's impression of him, but his supposed 'idiocy' always made everyone else write him off as unobservant.

The only one he didn't bother to fake with was Romano.

: : :

A day after activation, and Ivan still hadn't given China his space. He couldn't blame him, really. But China'd almost forgotten what it was like to have to babysit a man who always seemed to be so self-sufficiently mischievous and yet generally heart-warming.

He would not say he missed RUSSIA6640-3975. Russia was gone, and all he had left was Ivan… and _Tsar_. Currently, China was on his way to activate Ashoka—he would be needed, as his ability was invaluable, and his superior had instructed him long ago to activate his chain when the time was right. Ivan, however, was following behind him closely and kept playing with his low ponytail, batting it back and forth like a cat would and narrating to himself. It was incredibly annoying and degrading, but it kept him occupied, so China let it slide. (Centuries upon centuries of the same treatment had also hardened him against reacting to this little quirk.) The quiet, childish giggles floating out from behind him sent chills up his spine. They were not like Russia's laughs. Russia's had some tinge of normality to them, some shred of sanity which suggested something was _actually_ amusing (and he was being mischievous, again), and not just fabricated from a mind turned inside-out from countless revivals.

As they approached INDIA3460-4932's apartment door, he paused, turning slightly to catch Ivan's wrist as it made to snatch at his hair, once more. Bright purple eyes blinked curiously up at him, and the lack of lucid thought behind them almost made him shudder. China managed a gentle smile, instead, well aware of how thoughtlessly Ivan could react if he thought he had done something wrong.

"Vanya, could you be quiet, for a moment? I need to speak with Ashoka." A big hand closed around his little finger, tugging on it as though the owner were five years old. China tried not to budge, even as the force of that tug was well more than what a child could ever possibly achieve.

"'But Ya-Oh! I wanna play!" Ivan pouted at him, lower lip sticking out and China had to resist the urge to smack the look off his face. No good would come of it. (_Give me back my sane companion—just disappear from your unnatural existence, damn you!_) China's smile grew a tad strained as he reflected on how hypocritical his thoughts were. He patted Ivan's arm as though in understanding, although he really just wanted his hand back. A man nearly two heads taller than him acting like this—China would never get used to it. Especially after sweet-mannered, even-tempered, _stable_ RUSSIA6640-3975.

"I have something very important to talk with him about. You can play after I'm done, all right?" Ivan pouted more, but released China's hand—thank goodness!—only to cross his arms over his chest and slide to a sulking seat on the floor. Given Ivan's bulky size, he took up half the hallway.

"Fine!" The Russian huffed the word with all the spoiled attitude of a seven-year-old denied dessert. China kept his true thoughts to himself and instead graced Ivan with a cheerful smile, turning back to the door with a response in one of their shared languages, to try to soothe Ivan's pouting.

"_Xiè xie_."

: : :

Veneziano tipped his head to the side, blinking cutely at the unhappy-looking boy seated next to him. The other boy's pout grew only more pronounced, and when Veneziano reached out to poke him he screeched, jumping away and flailing his chubby eight-year-old arms.

"D-Don' touch me, bastard!" Veneziano frowned a little, then smiled brightly, gathering himself and pouncing on the other boy, bearing them both to the ground.

"Ohhhh-kaaaaay~!" He sang, running his eyes over the other boy, to catalogue his appearance to memory. Veneziano was very good at that. "My name's ITALY_VENEZIANO_2173-8852 and I like yummy things and playing with machines and hugging and kissing and—" He stopped himself mid-sentence, just now noticing that the boy beneath him was doing his very best to wriggle away. Veneziano paused, then beamed, throwing out his hands to pin the other boy's wrists down so he couldn't get away. Ignoring the undignified squawk that met the air, he instead stared down at the older boy with bright, inquisitive eyes. Darker olive ones met his, for a moment, then canted away as their owner muttered under his breath.

"S-Stop playing make-believe, 's not nice—" Veneziano blinked, and a tiny smirk wound its way out over his face, unconsciously. The expression must have caught at the corner of those olive eyes, and Veneziano didn't bother to fix it as the boy moved his head to regard him quietly, calmly. _Assessingly._ Veneziano felt his face warm a little, and then the older boy scoffed, body going limp as he just set to lying on the floor. Without a thought, Veneziano released him and instead took to poking at his cheek with a finger. The boy's brows fiddled together for a moment, before Veneziano was irritably swatted away. He laughed, and received a glare for his trouble. A wide and innocent toothy grin followed, and the other boy growled at him, sitting up abruptly and shoving him off. Veneziano flailed a little before righting himself—all an act, and biting words beat him to the punch.

"You're a liar." Veneziano looked up, blinking again. The other boy had his arms folded across his chest, and a glare that made something tighten in Veneziano's throat. He was found out. Would he lose this boy as a friend, too? "But—" A hand reached out, suspended in air. "B-But if you never lie to _me_, I'll be your friend." He took a moment to contemplate this, but soon noticed that the other boy was starting to look uneasy, and so quickly reached out and grasped onto the extended hand with both of his own, a slightly dark smile creeping onto his face.

"Okay." The smile was just to test, to see if the boy would get frightened off by even just a glimpse of his real nature. But his new friend merely stared quietly at him a moment, before nodding, placing his other hand atop Italy's two—and then shaking their combined hands once, firmly.

"I'm ITALY_ROMANO_4429-3657."

: : :

Two days after Britain's emergence found CANADA9903-6874 standing outside PRUSSIA9627-8841's apartment, hands fiddling with the buttons on his grey cuffs, nervous and all-too-aware that his friend might not be there. For the past day or so Prussia hadn't been answering his calls, and it worried him—but not _too _much, after all, the man could have been swamped with work (although he'd heard nothing from 'Chelle or Cuba, but that wasn't the point…). America had dealt with the blow of 'losing' England surprisingly well (after he'd gotten over the stomachache he had from eating all those food chips in one sitting), and had gone to training this morning with a weary smile and a thumbs-up (after Canada let himself into his apartment to make sure he didn't sleep in). Canada knew America was repressing how he really felt, to put on a pleasant face, but he also knew there would be no getting it out of him until a few days had passed and he was ready to talk about it beyond the melodramatic whining he tended to display instead of actually opening up about his real feelings. Besides, who knew? There was always the possibility that England might come back, right? (Canada personally didn't think so, but who was he to dampen his brother's hopes like that? America really loved England…)

As it was, his own Navigator training didn't start for another hour or so, and since it was still fairly early and he hadn't had breakfast (not for nerves, no!), he thought perhaps Prussia might like to join him. He had religiously planned it all out—go out for lunch (they did that sometimes and it wouldn't be anything unusual), and then segueway into commenting to Prussia (casually!) about all the games on the Recreational 1st Floor, and how he'd never tried them (which was just a _little_ white lie). Hopefully that would make Prussia start crowing about all his Game Credits and accept, if for no other reason than 'to show you how amazing I am, Cannie!'. It was the perfect plot.

Canada took a deep breath. Now all he had to do was knock.

…Well, _ideally_.

He rang the doorbell (after knocking and realizing it was likely too soft to be heard).

Thundering footsteps ran to the door, and it slipped open and into the wall with a force Canada didn't know existed, and he started backward with a yelp. The red gaze of a widely-grinning Prussia settled on him and he lunged forward, grabbing Canada by the elbow, voice excited. The zipper in the center of his red bodysuit was open all the way, and revealing far too much pale skin for Canada _not_ to feel embarrassed (even despite the tank top and boxers beneath).

"Fran! _Geh schnell, Schwartzi _**[2]**_ hat von_—wait, where's—" Prussia's brows knit as he trailed off, the exuberance dying down a little as his eyes scanned over Canada a second time, his grip loosening and Canada retreated another few steps and out of his hold until he felt his back hit the wall, smiling awkwardly as recognition lit in Prussia's eyes. He rubbed his arm in a muted anxious gesture where Prussia had held it. It was't too weird, right? After all, people often mistook him for someone else—France, most of the time, although he hadn't been aware Prussia had given the poor Frenchman such a girly nickname (seriously, _Fran?_).

"G-Good morning—" Canada cursed mentally, stopping mid-sentence as his nervous stutter made itself known at the most inopportune moment. He smiled apologetically at Prussia as the other CR continued to stare at him as though a date palm had sprouted from his forehead. When the silence started to lengthen he shifted, glancing off down the hall with a slight blush. They spoke at the same time.

"P-Prussia, I—" "M—"

Barely registering the sound, Canada cut himself off and looked up, blinking as Prussia seemed to falter again, casting him a weak smile as he shook his head with a little laugh. "Maybe you should come inside?" Canada's brows furrowed as he detected a slight accent to Prussia's English that he'd never heard, before. He shook himself out of it, though, upon registering Prussia's expectant (…anticipatory?) face.

"I-I was actually wondering ifyou'dliketohavelunchtoday." The rest of the words ended up jumbled together, the strength in his tone slowly ebbing away until that last smush of a sentence was more at the level of a mouse's breath than anything else. Prussia still just stared at him—it was getting to be a bit unnerving, actually—before breaking out into a soft smile that Canada'd never seen, before. Just looking at it made him feel bashful, and he banished his gaze to his boots. An arm slung abruptly around his shoulders, and the loud, boisterous voice in his ear almost made him wince.

"To lunch it is, then!" He was practically pulled along against his will (only not…), but Canada managed to get a word in edge-wise against all the excited babbling coming from his companion, as they reached the end of the hall.

"Y-Your zipper's still open, eh—" There was a pause.

"A minor detail!" Then, a harsh zipping-up sound, and next Prussia continued on as though nothing had happened. Canada bowed his head, fighting the urge to snicker at his friend's ridiculousness. He would never say it—or at least not yet—but he felt so relieved the initial moment had gone well, that he could almost ignore the way Prussia seemed to roll his 'r's and slip into random gibberish (well… what sounded more like gibberish than Prussia's _usual_ gibberish, at least). He had probably just started studying up on some Jermon (that was the old language of Prussia, right?), listening to some old audio books in the Archives and had gotten the mispronunciations stuck in his head, so they came out in his English.

(Even to America that reason would sound like a stupid one, but what other explanation could there be?)

Canada, of course, could not know that Officer Schwartz—when he returned—would _not _be pleased to find his charge gone. Kaiser's bottommost Com (which also held a tracking device, like all Coms) was left 'innocently' discarded inside the apartment. In fact, it was on a table, still attached to the neat square of red fabric which had been cut off from Kaiser's bodysuit.

(In fact, one might go so far as to say Schwartz would be _livid.)_

: : :

"Leave him alone!" Italy stood, proud and tall, in front of Romano, glaring fiercely with that innocently-weak-but-stubborn glare he used best, puffing himself up so as to look taller. Enough was enough! Romano obviously didn't like Spain hanging around him so much, and Spain's friends were anything but nice—he saw France, saw how he pined in unrequited love after England, and how Prussia tormented poor Austria before Hungary would step in and save him. Spain was the one he trusted the least, because he knew those smiles, since he made them every day. What scared him more was that—just as Romano had warmed up to Italy—he might warm up to Spain the same way. And where would that leave Italy? The only person he could be himself with was Romano, and if Spain tempted Romano away from him… Who would he be left with? Germany? While a magnificent tool, Germany was just so _boring_! And bossy! Although Italy did sort of secretly relish getting on Germany's nerves—there was nothing so amusing as getting him upset because everything wasn't '_just so'_, after all—he was definitely a second choice to Romano.

Spain blinked before him, canting his head in what must be false confusion. Italy puffed his cheeks out, then, determined not to back down. Spain was seventeen—in his ninth year, here at the Academy—and Romano and Veneziano were only twelve, being fourth years. And Spain had been bothering Romano since first year. It had to stop—Spain had to know where the line was, so he wouldn't continue to pester Romano even _after_ he graduated!

"He doesn't like you, so stop clinging to 'Mano like—!" A hand grabbed the crook of his elbow and dragged him out of the hallway, cutting off Veneziano's sentence and leaving a bewildered Spain standing there, alone. Veneziano tried not to turn red at the feel of Romano's skin against his (even through fabric), but failed. He settled for hanging his head, eying the tiled floor (of the corner Romano'd pulled them into) beneath his uniform slip-ons. He heard a shift as Romano's hand left him, a slight rustling as it apparently combed back through his hair, agitated. A slow sigh.

"Listen, Veny. I know what you're tryin' to do, and thanks, but—" Here Italy lifted his head, eyes abruptly bright as his entire being leaned forward and his hands rose in earnest, harmless fists.

"B-But you're just trying to be nice about not liking Spain, right? That's why you never push him really hard o-or let him hear when you have free time, right? Because you're being nice—" Romano blinked at him, leaning back a bit and turning a hint red, eyes hastily darting around, nervous.

"W-Well, uh—yeah! Y-Yeah! And you're—"

"Just messing up your plan by trying to 'help'?" Veneziano was almost smiling, now, relieved. His palms came to rest on Romano's covered upper arms. "Oh, I'm so glad I get it!" He leaned forward, kissing the other Italian's cheeks with a spritely laugh. "I'll leave Spain alone from now on, 'Mano~!" And—just for a moment—the Southern Italian really _looked _at him, eyes set and serious. Veneziano knew that look, and automatically the cherubic mask fell from his face.

"Really? You really will?" And Veneziano had to fight the urge to project another false smile, and instead only nodded quietly, looking down and away, once more, his hands loosening their grip on Romano's arms, even though he didn't really want to let go.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will, if that's what you want—" A hand clasped his, and he started, looking up and feeling a hint of pink tinge his face as Romano leaned forward and returned his kisses, one to each cheek, before the older boy let their foreheads knock gently together. And he was grinning—as much as Romano _could_, anyway, which was a barely-there, self-conscious upturn of the left corner of his mouth which hesitantly showed a few teeth—and suddenly Veneziano didn't feel so bad about the whole situation. (The _obvious _situation where Romano really did like Spain, but was going about expressing it in his own awkward way…) But if that's what Romano wanted—

"It is. Thanks, Veny." —then Veneziano would do nothing to speed it along. He'd just wait until the novelty wore off, for Spain, and Romano came crying into his arms for comfort. He could wait.

Even now, Italy still admired Romano. Romano was a renowned Fighter all for his speed, and always worked so hard in his training. He, himself, was lazy. He knew what he needed to do for his job, what he needed to do with other people to suck them in, and he did that and nothing more. GERMANY3298-6744 was, of course, an obvious exception. Even after so long (they had known each other since the Academy), the Technician still didn't completely buy into Italy's persona. It forced Italy to work harder to convince Germany of his 'lack of intelligence'—hanging around him at all hours of the day, pulling him into affectionate hugs and kissing his cheek, causing the German to go bright red. In reality Italy was only trying to forget, and Germany was an easy vent for all the things he _couldn't_ do with the person he actually cared for. Acting that way around Germany—a man who, for all it appeared, _had_ no attraction to _anyone_—ensured that Italy wouldn't do something stupid around That Person. That Person was already attached, anyway, so any attempts on Italy's part would only hurt him…

So the Messenger kept his façade up. He kept goofing off around Germany, avoiding Romano unless called for, and being generally cheery with Spain. If anything, Italy knew Germany would faithfully follow through with what he'd asked. Even if he didn't want to, he would go see Spain, feeling duty-bound to help. It was moments like those that Italy risked showing Germany too much, but he couldn't be bothered to worry about it—he felt so much anger towards Spain for what he'd done to poor Romano (_Cheating_ on him, with _France_ of all people!), there was nothing for it. As it was, Germany never seemed to think his suspicions were correct, anyway, so Italy was probably safe.

Straightening, and pressing his next food chip a bit more vigorously than usual, Italy glanced down at the combo he had made, and smiled. The tags at the end identified the foods, of course, and when you mixed them the tags pressed together and showed you what was in the resulting combo-chip. Meats, fish, poultry, nuts and eggs were labeled on the right short side of a rectangular food chip, breads and pastas on the left short side, fruits, vegetables and dairy products on the bottom long side, and any additional spices or flavorings on the top long side. There was, of course, room for everything, because every food group had a number, and within that group every food had its _own_ number.

For example, a chicken parmesan food chip would be combined from the breaded chicken, pasta, parmesan cheese, mozzarella cheese and tomato food chips, with a few extra numbers listed on the top long side for the spices. The trick was being able to combine them correctly so they resulted in something delicious. Italy had never tasted chicken parmesan from Old Earth, but there were old family recipes passed down by his 'parents' (better described as the people the UM had entrusted him to after he was born, so he could learn the culture of the country he represented by being raised with it), which helped. He had taken to cooking like a Mechanic took to a broken-down old space shuttle, and quickly put in a request for the best food-chip-presser he could find. After a year or two the UM finally got around to sending him one—not many CRs had them on the mothership, but almost every civilian in the country cubicles _did. _It was worth getting up at odd hours to go bother Germany (the odd hours were so Italy would seem even more absent-minded and unstable), breeze past the nine-digit pin pad he'd hacked into ages ago and tinker in his kitchen with his ChiPr Classic (Pronounced "chip-er", and short for the brand name, Chip-Press. "Thousands of possibilities, with none of the mess! The original brand in chip-pressing convenience!").

Italy did it so much, with so many recipes, he'd gathered a sort of sixth sense when it came to mixing them. It was a hobby of his, and he knew everything from how important how many of one food chip mixed with another would change the taste, to what ingredients should go first, and when it was best to use a half or even a quarter or an eighth of a food chip to season correctly. At any rate, it was a hobby he was rather thankful for, now, when he finished arranging the small pile of multi-colored and multi-labeled food chips on the counter (with numbers running all along all the sides, showing how many ingredients had been put into them), and headed for the bedroom. Romano had been lying in bed moping about Spain for the better part of the past day, and it was time for it to stop.

There weren't many things Romano would be coaxed out of bed for, but luckily Italy knew good food was one of them. (And it at least helped that _calamari in umido_ had tomatoes in it. Hopefully the creamy _polenta_ taste would come out in perfect accompaniment, too… **[1]** )

: : :

Germany muttered to himself as he turned from FRANCE0698-1143's door, after waiting thirty minutes for the man to show up—or at least _answer!_ He'd even tried calling him, but apparently the Frenchman had the damn thing on silent. He frowned, forehead creasing as he rounded the corner, intending to go back to Italy's apartment and inform him directly (Italy never kept his Com on, except when he was away for Messenger work) before washing his hands of this mess, entirely.

Unfortunately, someone coming around that same corner ended up running smack into him, and—Germany being the taller and more muscled one—teetered back before he caught his arm, preventing the other man from falling. Bright blue eyes blinked up at him behind wavy blond hair and the German CR felt his heart drop to his stomach as he recognized him, barely hearing the babbled apology as France rebalanced himself. The other CR ran a hand back through his hair, brushing his bangs out of his face with a light laugh while the motion also expertly shrugged off Germany's hands from his upper arms. Throat prickly, Germany swallowed and straightened, only then noticing the officer—the gold lettering on his purple bodysuit was enough of an indication—peering uncertainly at them as France greeted him.

"Ah, it has been so long! How are you? Have you seen your brother, yet? I'm sure he is—" Shaking his head, Germany frowned down at France, and the other man trailed off mid-sentence when he noticed the look, canting his head adorably to the side. "…Yes? Is something wrong?" The frown unintentionally turned into a scowl, and, unnoticed, the officer retreated a few steps, wary of the intimidating expression.

"Arndt—" (His older brother who worked on the 7th Floor, and the biological son of the Beilschmidt couple who had raised him.) "—has been home on sick leave for the past week, so no—I have not seen him." Germany's tone was crisp and glib, eyes narrowing as France's gaze slowly clouded with confusion. The Technician dipped his head forward, slightly, dropping his voice both for the sake of keeping their conversation private from the officer as well as minimizing the awkwardness. "Stop avoiding the issue." Light blue eyes lit up with recognition, at last, and France opened his mouth to speak, but Germany barreled right over him, throat tightening even as he showed no emotion while he uttered the damning words. "Why are you having an affair with Spain? Do you simply not care how it affects—"

Germany did not expect the reaction he received. France simpered at him, interrupting and covering his pretty mouth as the chuckles bled forth, each one like a small poisoned prick against his chest. France's gaze slid slyly up to him as Germany straightened once more, feeling suddenly, inexplicably, uncomfortably exposed. Delicate French fingers waved in the air with an elegant flick of the wrist, the motion dismissive.

"'Spain' and I are not involved in any such way, you can be sure~" That gaze seemed too sure, too amused at him to be wholly honest. Was there something Germany was missing? France _did_ seem to be acting a tad unlike himself, but—what? There was a flicker of pity across the blond's expression as France glanced to the side, the arched confidence of that mouth slumping off as his voice sobered. "But you had best keep Lo—" There was a nanosecond of a mispronunciating pause. "—_Romano_ away from him." A sharp look stabbed into him, and Germany felt his insides freeze, even as he showed no outward response. France proceeded to walk past him, an almost-inaudible mutter—one Germany wasn't _quite_ sure was meant for him to hear—darting past as he went. "It is better for everyone." As the officer following France rounded the corner, Germany could still hear them.

"Gallia, sir—that was no one important, just CR Technician GER—"

"I am well aware who it was, and you had best stay quiet and follow orders, _Monsieur_ Dumont."

That cold, succinct statement left Germany wondering just_ who_ it was he had run into.

: : :

HUNGARY6822-4119 was _not_ happy. First of all because AUSTRIA6428-3365 had—against all logic—actually_ agreed_ to a meal with that ass, PRUSSIA9627-8841. She just couldn't understand it, because ever since the Academy Austria had loudly proclaimed that he'd rather go deaf and blind than be within range of the red-eyed pervert's evil pranks, ever again. She'd behaved herself at the meal, of course, and had situated herself strategically between them, so as to prevent any damage attempted on her beloved. However, Prussia had seemed strangely compliant and willing to keep the immature mischief to a minimum, although he was still horribly self-centered and had retained his childhood tendency to laugh too much. (As well as have no apparent volume control on his voice—it had been a loudly peculiar meal, to say the least.)

Secondly, her partner had missed his last two training sessions, and enough was enough! Italy wouldn't be able to talk Romano out of this one. No, she, Hungary—the proud, _responsible_ half of the Fighter Set assigned to Team 05—stood outside SPAIN4139-2267's apartment, arms crossed over her chest and glaring righteous anger at the door before her. She had rung the doorbell, but there was no response. Like _hell_ Spain wasn't in, she could hear movement in there! She'd even called once, hearing the high-pitched beeping emanating from Spain's Com—so she _knew _he was there! Romano wasn't here, either—Italy had at least told her _that _much, but Hungary wasn't too clear on the details. Either way, if Romano was upset enough to miss two practice sessions yesterday, it had to be _something_ with Spain.

Not that Romano usually missed work, or even slacked off that much. In the beginning he'd been a bit low on self-esteem, but he was naturally fast and agile—so much so that Hungary herself had trouble keeping up with him. Romano just needed space to let his talent show, and the rest of it was simply due to time and practice. Ever since he'd gotten comfortable with her, he'd smirked as he would run past her on the indoor track, all confidence and smooth pride and she would find herself grinning, happy to have such a partner who was confident enough to go all-out. Perhaps in another lifetime Romano would have felt overshadowed by Italy's presence—Italy _was, _after all, one of the only known Messengers—but Italy's job was top-secret enough that he didn't get much limelight. Romano, however, was always right in the center of the action, either backing Hungary up in a battle or serving as a blinder while she readied her attack. Being only one year apart, they worked perfectly together, and had had quite a while to polish their teamwork. It had only been a little over six years since Romano graduated from the Academy, and for most of those years (barring the initial experimental period) they'd been partners. Hungary didn't know how the UM did it, but they always managed to pair up Fighters who worked well together. (RUSSIA6640-3975 and SWITZERLAND9213-4459 from Team 07 and VIETNAM1058-6312 and BELARUS6066-9881 from Team 06 were perfect examples.)

Caught up in her thoughts, Hungary had been standing there quietly for long enough that when the door began to open, she jerked out of them and into action, lunging forward and fisting her hands in the first bit of chest fabric that presented itself, pushing the offender back inside before he had a chance to exit.

"Spain! What're you—" Wide brown eyes met hers and she stopped in shock, staring.

"W-Wait!" A man with dark hair cut short on his head (a natural curly mess, Hungary noted) put his hands up in surrender and smiled nervously at her—and it was only now she realized he was wearing a dark purple bodysuit, lined in officer-gold. He began to babble at her (Oh, was her grip keeping him off the ground too tight? No matter.), but she still peered at him suspiciously. What was an officer doing in Spain's room? She didn't know of any friends he had in the higher ranks… Hungary only moved when a firm hand landed on her shoulder, pressing lightly in warning. She tensed up instinctively, turning her head to regard—

"Erzabet." _'Erzabet'?_ "Release _se__ñ__or_ Gutierez, _sí_?" –but, wait.

"Spain?" She knew she sounded confused, but couldn't be bothered to worry about that right now. Spain narrowed his eyes at her—the look too intense, too scathing for a moment—before it lightened marginally into a more apathetic expression. _How odd—_

"As I told the yelling boy, _yo no soy Espa__ñ__a_." Spain shook his head, but his eyes never left her. It was eerie. They were without light—thin, calculating, assessing—like a predator observing everything so as to be ready for a sudden strike. Hungary felt an unkind icicle trill up the back of her neck. "Why does eveyone get that wrong? I am—"

"Sir! You cannot div—" "What are you _saying_, Sp—?"

She and Officer Gutierez registered their simultaneous comments and stopped at once, glancing at one another. As an afterthought, Hungary let her grip slacken and Gutierez neatly dropped those few centimeters to the floor, nodding slightly to her in thanks as he ran a hand back through his hair. But Hungary didn't spare another moment for him, instead immediately turning to Spain, body language adjusting accordingly to the tension she sensed. One of her hands flung out at the air in a gesture of frustration, her face contorting in anger.

"Spain! What the hell are you saying? I don't care what kind of spat's going on between you and Romano, it stops _now, _because _nothing_ is a good enough excuse for him missing two of our training sessions! So you're coming with _me_, and we're going to—" She made a grab for him, but a cool hand snagged her wrist, a slight twitch of anger flickering over Spain's face before it smoothed out again. His voice was too-calm, the grip on her arm just short of bruising. _Was it on purpose?_

"Erzabet. I have told you, I am not 'Spain'." His eyes flicked down to her face, and she swore she almost saw a sneer. "…Come back when you are Erzabet again,_ sí_? This you is just annoying." He was looking down his nose at her, head canted arrogantly and using the bit of height he had on her for intimidation. It only got Hungary's blood boiling, more. Forget Romano, Spain had just insulted her. She wasn't an idiot, she knew something was wrong, but still—that was no excuse. She moved almost before she knew it—and he jerked, but somehow he'd managed to catch it at the last moment, spreading most of the force away from where her green-clad shin had connected with his red-clad hip. He had leaned over to avoid part of the hit, and he breathed at her from only a noselength away, eyes shadowed and flickering, like a flame bribed with paper. She met the look steadily, even as she reflected uncertainly upon it.

"_Muy estúpido_, Erzabet. I do not want to fight you." Every word of that was a lie, and she could see it in his face. Because this was Spain, even when it wasn't—she'd known Spain for years, ever since the Academy (there weren't _that_ many CRs, after all), knew every laugh-line and wrinkle in his thirty-year-old face and what she was seeing now wasn't Spain, so much as it looked like him. Her pride bristled, but her battle instincts warned her of the liquid tension still pulsing through the muscles that held her captured leg aloft at his side (where her kick had landed), and the hard fingers that encased her wrist in a steel trap. She wasn't one used to feeling vulnerable, but Spain wasn't himself, right now. _What is this—what happened? _Despite these thoughts, Hungary raised her head, proudly.

"Then don't. But don't pick one, either." A shimmer of something too close to fury blinded her for a moment and Hungary found herself slammed against the wall of the apartment, a clenched hand on her windpipe blocking air and burning poison-green slits of eyes sucking the life out of the room. Something muttered in a dangerous tongue she didn't understand lilted through her ears uncomprehendingly, before another voice joined and Spain slowly withdrew, releasing her. She put a hand to her throat, coughing and slumping against the wall but not collapsing entirely, even as her vision and hearing began to clear. Officer Gutierez babbled away at Spain in the background of her thoughts as they exited the room without any further acknowledgement of her existence. The door slid shut behind them, automatically, leaving her alone. Rubbing her sore throat, Hungary stared quietly at the dark floor. Her free hand slowly curled into a fist atop one green-clad thigh, boots steadying her and pressing firmly into the carpet below.

_Something isn't right._

: : :

MONGOLIA7299-0335 waited impatiently outside the Sick Bay, tapping his foot against the floor and scowling quietly to himself. What had China needed to talk to him about, that it couldn't wait until tomorrow? He had a date with India tonight (after she got off Technician duty), and he didn't want to be—he blinked as he noticed two familiar figures heading down the hall towards him. His eyebrows rose simultaneously, as the taller of the pair seemed to perk up and begin running at him. Mongolia felt a moment of fear when it seemed RUSSIA6640-3975 had no intention of slowing down—and the hulking Fighter very nearly didn't, pressing Mongolia's face into his green bodysuit, cheering so brightly it echoed around the hall.

"Khanya~! Ooooh, it's been so long, so long—" Russia giggled—it was actually rather disturbing, this time. As Mongolia began to try and wriggle free, Russia lifted him off the ground and snickered into his ear, instead, right above the white collar of his white Doctor bodysuit. "_Nyet, nyet!_ Not before our song! Do you know? The one that goes _Pust' vsegda budet solntse—" _Mongolia felt his limbs freeze up, eyes inadvertently fixing on China's still-approaching face.

"_Pust' vsegda budet mir—" _The other Doctor looked… somber? But then, what—

"_Pust' vsegda budet mama—" This song is so familiar… _

"_Pust' vsegda budu ya!" _And then he just let the static take him away. **[3]**

: : :

CANADA9903-6874 blinked as PRUSSIA9627-8841's first Com went off just as they entered the Terry, causing a perplexed frown to sink over the Mechanic's face. (Canada just now noticed that Prussia's second Com [the one which connected the emergency line] was missing—seemingly cut clean off in a perfect square?) Prussia sent an awkward smile towards Canada, sliding his arm off his shoulders and gesturing for the Navigator to go get some food as Prussia pressed the topmost button (well, it _would_ have been, if the other weren't gone) on the collar of his red bodysuit, turning away to take the call. Brows knitting together in slight confusion, Canada observed his friend's back for a moment before turning away, and heading out of earshot. From the chip dispensers he quietly watched Prussia's conversation—the suddenly-stiff set of his shoulders, an unconscious nod or two, after a while. Canada couldn't hear the conversation over the murmurs of the other people in the Cafeteria around him. After grabbing two drinks, Canada headed back over, smiling a tad uncertainly when Prussia whirled around just as he arrived. There was a big grin on Prussia's face, and he lunged forward to grab a cup—but something seemed wrong.

"_Toll! Dank—_" Prussia's Com went off again, and Canada's brows rose higher on his forehead, neutral expression souring into a quiet glare as the Mechanic blinked down at the beeping communication button-link. Something unfurled unhappily in Canada's chest as Prussia looked back up at him helplessly, and the Navigator turned quickly on his heel and began walking away. Infatuation or no, if Prussia couldn't even spare the_ time _to—a finger hooked into one of the useless belt-loops on his grey bodysuit and Canada was jerked to an involuntary halt.

"W-Wait, no, I'm sorry—" Incredulous, Canada turned half-around, eyes wide in a small amount of shock. He'd _never_ heard Prussia apologize to _anyone _before, it had to be a trick, but—but… Prussia looked really sorry, his expression suddenly strained and nervous, that taut grip on Canada's belt-loop not giving any, as though Prussia really was afraid he'd leave. Something in that vulnerability cowed him, and Canada offered a slight smile—noticing also, that Prussia's Com wasn't beeping anymore, so he must have ignored the call. Some small part of him felt validated in the apparent fact that he was more important to Prussia than whoever had been calling. Looking down at his own cup, he felt a little pinkness rise to his cheeks, and cleared his throat, nodding gently towards the chip dispensers as he felt Prussia's fingers slowly uncurl from where they'd hooked, to stop him.

"W-We should go get—I-I didn't know what you'd want, s-so—" He cursed his sudden stutter once more, but Prussia didn't seem to notice, instead laughing a little—was it a bit weak?—and sliding an arm around his waist.

"Sounds good to me! What've they got, today?" Canada mumbled something in response, face blossoming redder by the moment until he gently shoved Prussia's arm off. Too soon, for _that_. Surprisingly, Prussia let it be, and didn't push for more. Canada studied him subtly through the veil of his hair, while they waited for their turn at the dispenser. Something about Prussia seemed different, from the last time they'd talked. He couldn't place it, and it wasn't as though he didn't _like_ it, but—

If Prussia apparently _did_ return his feelings, why hadn't he ever acted like it, before?

: : :

HUNGARY6822-4119 and AUSTRIA6428-3365 faced each other, the look in the female Fighter's eyes older than it had ever been. PRUSSIA9627-8841 stood a little ways off—but of course, it wasn't the CR, Prussia. Officer Schwartz stood outside the door of the occupied room, preventing anyone from entering. Erzabet, not Hungary—officially known as 'Zala', the second third of the Teutonic Empire—stepped forward, voice soft.

"I understand this is hard for you, but we need Roderich." Austria, from his place seated before the ancient piano—one of the relics saved from the ruin of Old Earth—observed her quietly, the ghost of a smile in his demeanor.

"It is not hard for me at all, my dear." Zala continued to approach, then, and Austria turned to his piano, fingers rising calmly to the keys as she came up behind him. "I have known for fourteen years that this day would come—" Zala placed her hands over his, impersonally. He observed them fondly, before continuing his thought. "—and I would rather go with my lovely Hungary than be an obstacle to your being reunited with your Roderich." He didn't bother to glance up, but Zala leaned forward, placing Austria's hands over the required notes with great care. The Hungarian's long brown hair brushed against his ears as she leaned her chin upon the top of his head. Kaiser watched on, from his spot beside the door. A whisper—not unkind, but not overly wrought with emotion—smoothed unerringly into the Doctor's ear.

"I do not love you." And Austria only smiled, to that, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as she pressed his fingers into the keys, and instinct took over. As his mind hazed, AUSTRIA6428-3365's last thoughts were far from the woman behind him, and instead settled wistfully on a memory of his beautiful, vibrant Hungary. The only hint to them came out in a faint murmur.

"I know." And a great swell of simple music burst from the pianist's fingers, gliding effortlessly over the sweet tune once, twice—and Erzabet remained leaned against her returned friend in silence, Gilbert's red eyes far away as he recalled nothing he could see, now. The tune playing over and over as Roderich returned to them was as familiar as the memory that sang through his mind, in a long-dead mother's voice.

_Es tönen die Lieder, der Frühling kehrt wieder. _

_Es spielet der Hirte, auf seiner Schalmei. _

_La la la la la la la la la, La la la la la la la la la… _**[4]**

: : :

"_Teams K, L1, L2, M2, N1, N2, and P, please report to your stations. Again, Teams K, L1, L2, M2, N1, N2, and P, please report to your stations. That is all."_

: : :

**[1]** – _Calamari in umido, _with_ polenta_. Recipe from this site, just take out the spaces. h t t p : / / s i m p l y r e c i p e s . c o m / r e c i p e s / c a l a m a r i _ s t e w e d _ w i t h _ t o m a t o e s / (がんばれ、南イタリの料理っ！)

**[2]** – "Mein Schatzi" is a German endearment meaning "My Treasure." Officer Schwartz has a last name that sounds very similar to this word. Given Kaiser/Gilbert's personality, "Schwartzi" was an unavoidable result. x3~ (And yes, the nickname _does_ bother Officer Schwartz~ 8D )

**[3]** – "_Pust' vsegda" _is a Russian children's song. You can find a sample or two of it on YouTube.

**[4] **– "_Es tönen die Lieder" _is a German children's song. I know you can find it online, somewhere. My mom sang both this and [3] to me as lullabyes, when I was little_. :3_

_Reviews would make me feel appreciated. (SO MUCH.)  
_

…_Actually, I could just __**really**__ use a 'fusososo' charm or two, right about now.  
_

_x.x~ -Fox /Thank you so much to those who provided such charms. j~j  
_


End file.
